What's My Name?
by Raven Ehtar
Summary: In the early days of the Wammy House, there were some bugs in the program. What does it take to turn a boy into a killer? Beyond Birthday's story, without the filters. Rated for disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore.
1. Nameless

**_A/N:_**_ Homygod._

_Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. Regulars, lurkers, and newbies. Fanatics and the simply curious. It gives me unrivaled pleasure, unbridled joy, and a dark sense of glee to present, at long last, this: The first chapter of What's My Name?, a story meant to tell the tale of Beyond Birthday, his early days, and his slow decent into madness as seen in Death Note: Another Note. It has been long in coming, but at long last, it is here. I will not detain you from the story, all notes that I feel are important at this early stage are to be found in the second Author's Note._

_Enjoy, my lovelies!_

**_Beta:_**_ Voice of the Shadow Realm._

**_Music: _**'Lonely Soul'_ by UNKLE._

**_Warning:_**_ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ Death Note and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. Death Note: Another Note and related characters © NISIOISIN._

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What's My Name?

Part One, "Nameless"

Raven Ehtar

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_"The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms."  
~ Kurt Vonnegut Jr. ~_

_...  
_

When B had arrived at the Wammy House, the large red bricked orphanage set aside in a small patch of country near Winchester, he hadn't expected to stay for very long. Since his parents' death, he had gone through many such homes. This was just one more in a long line of orphanages that had taken him in, feeling sorry for his pitiable circumstances, and who had all eventually found some way to offload him to another set of waiting hands. It was routine by now, and B had learned not to expect anything to change in that routine. To hope that he would one day find a place that would not eject him back into the world, back into the system that processed homeless children like so much freight, it was a cruel hope at best. One that was inviting in its comfort, and which would blindside him when he least expected it. Better to just accept that every home was transitory, and form no expectations.

He sat outside the dominating structure with its dusty, twisting halls and tall bell tower, his most recent home. He was a goodish distance away, under an old maple, with the trunk between his back and the windows that stared out like dozens of eyes. He didn't want to be seen. As soon as he was called back inside by his new keepers he would emerge obediently, but until then he wanted some distance between himself and them.

He had been allowed to remain under the tree undisturbed for over an hour, and B had come to the conclusion that the ones inside wanted to see as little of _him_ as visa versa. That suited him fine. He preferred solitude to the alternative, to being part of a group. Adults or children, none could help but notice his particular oddity when he was around, no matter how hard he tried to conceal it. It was the part that revealed him to be truly different from everyone else around him, and labeled him a target.

His eyes. His strange, wondrous, and utterly cursed eyes that were the source of so much trouble for the young boy.

The iris of each of his eyes were a deep red, almost garnet color, so deep and dark that it had been some time before anyone had noticed that the shade had crossed and contaminated the black pupils as well. B looked out at the world through a red filter, and the entire world could see it.

B tried to hide his eyes. He avoided social interaction, and spent a good deal of his time alone, lowering the chances of ever meeting up with another human being. When contact couldn't be avoided, he never looked someone in the eye, even when speaking to them. His red gaze would be fastened on the ground, or closed, or, if he could get away with it, he would face away from the other person entirely. From the last orphanage he had gained a pair of dark sunglasses, which worked well to conceal his coloring, and he wore whenever possible. Even now, they were at his hand, neatly folded and ready to be whipped into place. There was only so much that could be done, however, and eventually everyone found out about his eyes. After that, it was only a matter of time.

B's eyes were not only remarkable for how they appeared. Their true strangeness was something that only B knew, had only ever shared with one other soul, but which others somehow intuited, even if they never understood their power. His eyes, put simply enough, saw more than any other set of eyes. He could see a name and a set of numbers hovering above the heads of every person he met in red, glowing characters.

Why he could see these things when no others could, B didn't know, but he blamed his eyes. Those little ruby orbs that revealed a person's identity and those numbers… The numbers…

B had been able to see these things his entire life, and while the meaning of the names was easy enough to understand, he had only recently realized the significance of the numbers. The meaning behind those floating figures was far less innocent than the names, and what truly made him a freak among his peers. The numbers told him exactly how long a person was to live. Years, months, weeks, days, hours, all the way down to minutes. He could tell anyone on the street just how old they would be when they died, and greet them by name when he did.

It was the curse of his eyes, exposed by their color.

Somehow, others could tell that there was more to them than a simple genetic mistake, altering their hue. They could tell that B wasn't quite human, could sense that he knew something they did not, something vital. Wondering would eventually turn to suspicion, suspicion into fear and resentment… it all began with that first glimpse of his eyes. Then the whispers would start. Whispers that would flit around his ears, taunting him and reminding him that he didn't belong among others who were fully human. Whispers that would grow in number and volume until he couldn't sleep at night, until everything finally broke apart, and if he was lucky, he would be sent along to the next home on his path. If he were unlucky…

It was why he spent so little time in the company of other children. All of the adults already knew about his red eyes and allowed him to wear his sunglasses inside to hide them, but so far none of the other orphans had discovered them. He had been at the Wammy House for about two weeks, so this was a personal record for B, and one he was determined to push as far as he could. Sideways looks from adults were tolerable, but from peers they could be dangerous. The least amount of time his eyes were seen, or that _he_ was seen, the less disturbance he would cause, and the longer his home would last him.

Besides wanting to keep his eyes a secret, he just didn't want to see anyone else. For how much his eyes could unsettle those who saw them, what he saw upset him much more. To ignore his eyes, all anyone had to do was look away. In a group, to avoid seeing the red and dancing numbers and letters over everyone's heads, B had to shut his eyes completely or stare fixedly at the ground. In a group, there was rarely anywhere to look other than down that would not have that reminder of his own monstrosity burning into his mind. He didn't want to know the name of every person he met before he was told, didn't want to know just how long every one of them had to live before some calamity or other claimed them. He didn't want to know, beyond shadow of doubt, that all came to death.

Flickering strings of numbers and letters, streaming past his garnet eyes and revealing to him secrets. Names and numbers and numbers and names.

Names. When he had first arrived in the Wammy House, taken off of the plane that had flown him across the Atlantic to England and hustled into a small, dark office, he had been told some of the intentions of the orphanage. He had been too tired, jetlagged, and otherwise muddled to make much sense out of any of it, but a couple of things had been driven home. There had been some talk of the Wammy House starting a new, experimental program for gifted children, something about training them to some specific occupation or other. Then there had been something about the founders of the orphanage, or perhaps just one founder. It had sounded like there was just one, but another name had been mentioned a few times, so B wasn't sure. What had really been driven past B's confusion, though, was what the man on the other side of the desk had said about names.

No one here had any names. The personal title they had been given at birth was cast aside, and in its place a fake name was taken by the child themselves, to be based off of the first letter of the discarded name. Until that new name was chosen, they were merely referred to by that letter.

The man, Roger Ruvie B's eyes revealed him when he chanced to look up, had stressed that point quite forcefully. B was simply B in this place, and until he decided on his taken name that was what anyone was to be told. He was never to introduce himself by his real name.

That point had been repeated several times, to be sure that B understood and would not forget. B had simply kept his tired eyes on the floor between his feet and nodded, assuring the middle-aged man that the importance had not been lost on him. It was simple enough, and he spent so little time with the others that it had yet to become an issue. In the two weeks he had resided at the Wammy House, he had yet to introduce himself to anyone.

Besides, it was so close to the game he had already been playing, it was hardly a switch.

Excepting that one point, the Wammy House wasn't so different from any of the other halfway homes that B had known. It was more accommodating than any other in that he was given a private room and allowed to wear his shades or disappear for hours - provided he always reappeared when called - but that wasn't odd so much as something to be very grateful for. There were structured mealtimes, and the food, while very healthy and well prepared, had the same generic blandness of every other orphanage. Recess times were scattered throughout the day, small jungle gyms, swings, and plenty of open space was provided, giving the dozens of orphans a variety of ways to tire themselves out. And of course, there were the classes.

B found that his feelings were mixed when it came to the classes. In theory every orphanage was obligated to provide their wards with some kind of education, but for most that translated to the bare minimum in terms of skill sets. Such was not the case, here. The Wammy House had in place a very difficult curriculum, and it was quickly becoming more strenuous as B's limits were being discovered. Every day he underwent tests, hundreds upon hundreds of questions that had little or nothing to do with his regular studies, which he was told were meant to ascertain his characteristics on different levels. The boy wasn't quite sure what the results were telling his guardians, but it only ever seemed to increase the difficulty of his classes.

Whatever it was they wanted to achieve here, they were determined, and willing to press their wards quite hard, although B hadn't seen any other orphan undergoing the same rigors that he was. Roger said that it was a new program, perhaps it was so new that he was the first to undergo the tests, and all of the others were regular orphans, still waiting to find permanent homes.

For all the difficulty, though, he found that he enjoyed the time spent exercising his mind. It had been rare, even when his parents had been alive, for him to be challenged intellectually, and it was a welcomed change. It gave him something to focus on, taking his thoughts away from their regular self-destructive patterns. The subject matter was broad, as well as advanced. Everything from the standard courses of math, social studies and English to things like botany, sociology, physiology, and languages, all tailored to be challenging but not impossible. It was stimulating as well as a distraction, and B found he looked forward to his classes.

Ironically, it was that reason, that enjoyment that gave him one of his sources of disliking time spent at his desk. Just the simple act of taking pleasure in his lessons, of entertaining that sense of anticipation, it sent his stomach into knots. He shouldn't be feeling things like that, shouldn't develop any kind of love for this place, when it would all only be stripped away from him later. No matter how careful he was or how antisocial he became, eventually his eyes would be noticed, and after that… Whispers, rumors, fear, and finally the apology that he just couldn't seem to fit in with their facility, and a new search for a place that would take him in.

Pattern, it was all part of the pattern, and he couldn't forget that.

B shook his head, clearing away the swirling thoughts that only seemed to echo and re-echo through his skull, repeating endlessly and giving him a headache. He hadn't come outside to chase himself around in circles, but to get away and relax. It was a calm afternoon in late summer, warm and drowsy, and B was alone. The property the Wammy House was situated on was very green and private; it was easy to think that the orphanage was somewhere deep in the country and not mere miles from Winchester. The tree B was leaning against was set far enough away from the play sets and the ball field that the sounds of children playing were faint at best, silent more often, and the chances of anyone finding him by chance were slim, indeed. The nearest structure to him was a smallish fountain, the sounds of its water splashing very gentle and soft in B's ears.

Through the dense leaves of the maple, B could just make out the random patterns of a few high clouds, the wind shooing them across the high roof of the sky. The breeze also brought the scent of rain to B, belying the appearance of a perfectly fine summer's day.

B stretched lazily beneath his tree, and just hoped the weather would hold until after he was already inside. If it started raining before that, then he would be called in earlier than he wanted to be, putting him back in close quarters with the others and their flickering labels. Tilting his head into a more comfortable position and snuggling is back into the unforgiving bark as best he could, B's bloody gaze slowly drifted closed…

…

The sound of the bell chiming startled B awake, and his neck twanged painfully as he bolted upright. After falling asleep his head had rolled to the side, and now there was a dull ache forming at the base of his skull.

Rubbing his neck, he counted the tolls, which echoed slightly around the grounds. The first one had woken him, so two… three… four… Four in the afternoon. He'd been asleep for a little less than an hour, which meant his total time spent outside had almost been two hours. Had no one called him or come out to find him? Were the others still playing somewhere? B stretched his ears, listening for any of the telltale sounds he had worked to ignore before. There was nothing besides the soft sounds of the fountain and the breeze through the maple leaves to be heard.

The boy shivered. It had gotten noticeably chillier since he had fallen asleep, and he hadn't brought a jacket out with him. From the smell in the air, and the dark clouds quickly approaching, it would rain soon, and it felt like it would be a big one.

He sniffed, and rubbed his cold nose. It was almost certainly time to head back inside. He had likely slept through any calls for him to return, and now his guardians would be busily searching for him, and when he reappeared he would be roundly scolded. Or perhaps, whispered the darker corner of his mind, they are celebrating that he was gone so quickly, and with no trouble to themselves. All they would have to do to be rid of him was fail to search _too_ thoroughly…

B tossed the thought away. As easy as it might be to believe, he knew it was false. Besides the fact that those at the Wammy House had not yet developed quite such an intense dislike for him, no orphanage or adult had ever actually wished harm on him. Just his absence.

He sighed. His entire body had grown stiff sleeping against the tree, and the warm summer afternoon had become an almost autumnal cold one. B stretched both arms up high, and heard a few pops come from his spine. It felt good, and loosened him some, but he could feel more joints that wanted to release. He crossed his legs Indian style and twisted around at the waist until he was facing the tree. A small tattoo of pops rang out and it became a little easier to breathe. He repeated, twisting the other way, and was again rewarded with a series of snaps. Now all that was left was his developing headache.

B took hold of one side of his head and gently pulled down and to the side, bringing ear closer to shoulder. It hurt a little with the stitch he had developed, but after a few of the vertebrae released with a crunch, the growing ache lifted a little. The same treatment to the other side almost relieved it completely.

Rolling his head around in circles and bobbing from side to side to loosen up any last bits of pressure, B didn't hear anyone approaching until a voice made him practically jump out of his skin.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

B started violently, and almost whipped around to look who it was that had snuck up on him, but caught himself. His sunglasses weren't in place, and the voice behind him was young. It was another orphan that stood behind him. He couldn't let another child see him without his eyes covered, their redness hidden. Allowing an adult see his eyes was endurable, but not a peer. So he kept his back turned, his red tinted vision fixed on a clump of weeds nestled against an exposed tree root.

His reaction only took a second or two, and as was the case in most situations like this, he ended up startling the one who startled him in the first place. "Whoa, sorry!" B heard the one behind him take a quick step back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. You okay?"

The red eyed boy tried to slow his breathing. Whoever was behind him sounded like a boy, and not a familiar one, which wasn't surprising. He hadn't seen B's eyes yet, so all he had to do was find his glasses and speed his way back inside, and he would be safe. Keeping his gaze on the weeds, he began patting the grass around him in search of his cover.

"I'm fine," he replied to the boy behind him. "Just didn't hear you coming is all." B hoped he sounded defensive enough that whoever it was wouldn't take much notice that he wasn't facing him as he spoke, or that he was frantically searching around himself for his wayward glasses. They had been so close, where could they have gone? Trying to bite back the rising panic, B asked, "What do you want?"

The other boy hesitated a moment, then, "Roger sent me out. Recess was over half an hour ago, and nobody's been able to find you." The boy paused, and B could almost feel him watch as his hands continued their desperate search. "Did you fall asleep?"

B couldn't think of any way to deny that without sounding deliberately disobedient. If he hadn't been asleep, then he had to have ignored the call back inside. "Yes," he said.

"You'll catch a cold, you know, 'specially if you kept sleeping when it started raining. Have you been doing a lot of studying?"

Apparently he was determined to stay until B either left or became too boring to hold his interest. B made a face the other couldn't see. His shades were obviously nowhere within reach, he would have to get up to search for them properly, but he couldn't with someone standing over him. "Yes," he said again. "Tests every day."

"I knew it!" There was suddenly the sound of quick, heavy footfalls approaching, and then looping around in front of B. The red eyed boy ducked his head even further, staring at the little patch of ground between his knees, only allowing the top of his head to be visible. B heard the boy drop down to the ground. "You're the new one, aren't you? B?"

B's shoulders tightened at that. No one else, save the adults, had known his name, or rather, his letter. No other orphan had approached him, much less already known who he was. It was unsettling, and set his stomach twisting. "Yes…"

"That's great! I'm A, the first one starting at the new Wammy House, and you're the second!" The other boy - A - shifted, and a hand appeared in B's line of vision. He flinched away, but didn't scoot backwards. A either didn't notice or ignored B's reaction.

"My name's Any."

It took an effort to not raise his head, to look up at the boy's face and then above to where his floating figures would be waiting. It was hard not to look, because it was automatic for B to confirm the name he was given, and the proof was right there. He knew the name was false, though. If Any was part of the same program as he was, then he had received the same instructions that B had to never reveal your true name to anyone, but only provide your letter or taken name. "Any" must have been the name A had decided to take. It was a strange name, and B wondered why he had chosen it.

Forcing himself to keep his eyes down, he carefully took the extended hand and shook it slowly. Any's grip was warm around his chilled fingers, and nearly enveloped his hand entirely. B wondered how old Any was.

"I'm B," he replied quietly, even though Any already knew. It was the first time he'd introduced himself by letter, and it felt strange.

B could almost hear the grin in Any's voice. "Haven't decided on a name, huh? It's okay; it took me a long time, too."

B's hand was released, and for a moment he remained still and silent, hoping that Any would leave, now that he knew who he was. Small hope.

"How come you're not looking at me?"

B swallowed hard. This was becoming more awkward and difficult with every one of Any's questions! It was like he was on some sort of personal mission to know everything about him, and that was not to be tolerated. If even one other child found out about his eyes, it would spread until everyone knew, and then the whispers and watching would begin. "I- I can't find my glasses," he said, voice trembling slightly.

"You mean your sunglasses? I've got them. They were by the tree." A second hand came into view again, just on the edge of his vision so B had to raise his head ever so slightly. Lying in Any's palm between five curled fingers were his glasses.

He made to snatch them out of the other boy's hand, but they were pulled back too quickly, and B caught only air. Still keeping his head down, B didn't see what Any was doing with his prized shields, or what his expression was, but he imagined there being some sort of gloating smile there. "Why do you wear these?" he asked, and B fancied he heard the sneer in his tone. He gritted his teeth. "The teachers are usually pretty strict about things like that."

B didn't answer for a moment. What could he say that didn't sound like a complete lie? What reason could someone have to constantly go around wearing dark glasses, unless they were blind? Finally he decided on, "I can't see without them. I'm nearsighted."

There was another pause. "And these are prescription?"

B nodded, hoping his lie worked, hoping that Any would just hand them back, and then B could hide behind them again, and avoid seeing Any ever again. Although, if he really was part of the same program that he was, that would prove difficult…

"Is it because your eyes are red?"

Everything seemed to stop for B. His breathing, his heart, his thoughts, the sounds of wind and the faraway fountain… everything froze with what Any said. If he already knew, than someone else had to know as well, and whoever that second person was wasn't likely to keep quiet, and neither would whomever _they_ decided to tell… How many already knew, how many planned to try and confirm what they had heard, how many stories about his unusual appearance were already circulating, and how long he would have to wait until the pattern was complete, and he was moved on?

Chilled air was dragged in by aching lungs, and time restarted. B licked his lips, and cleared his throat. "Uh… how did you know about them?" Even to his own ears his voice sounded shaky.

The other boy shifted, rearranging himself into a more comfortable position. "I overheard some of the adults talking about you before you showed up." There was a chuckle. "Well, I eavesdropped, but no one caught me, so it's okay."

"And how many others know?" he asked, curling his hands into fists, pulling up the strands of grass that were unfortunate enough to be caught in his fingers.

"As far as I know, no one," Any said, sounding confused.

B caught himself again before looking up in surprise. No one else knew? Could he believe that?

"No one would believe me if I told them, anyway," Any continued. "No one else heard Roger talking about it, so they would just think I was making it up. And besides, the only ones that are here now who are staying are us. We're the only ones in the program so far, so everyone else is being placed in different facilities."

"Everyone else is leaving?" B asked before he could stop himself.

"Yep, and new kids who can take the program will be brought in."

That was… good. B felt like he could breathe easier. There were many reasons the shift in the child population would make life at the Wammy House a little simpler for him… but Any leaned forward into B's personal space, cutting off his thoughts as fresh alarm swept through him.

Any didn't come in very close, just close enough to catch his attention and so he could speak softly and still be heard. "Can I see them?"

B twitched slightly, drawing in and further away from Any.

Seeing the miniature retreat, Any spoke quickly. "I won't tell anyone else about them, I swear. You can ask Roger or anybody else, I never break a promise. It's just I've never seen red eyes before, so…"

B was at a loss. His first instinct was to refuse outright. Showing his eyes to anyone who had not already seen them for themselves was just a bad idea on the very face of it. If they didn't already know, then why invite trouble and inform them? Except that Any already knew, had found out on his own. If he refused to show his eyes, then he wouldn't be keeping information away from the other boy, he would just be making him frustrated and possibly drive him to making his own attempts at catching a glimpse of B's eyes. And refusing to show would practically be the same as showing as far as proof went: why would anyone with a normal hue to their eyes not present them when requested?

But… revealing them meant looking up. It meant looking at Any, and seeing his real name and his numbers. It meant knowing exactly how old this boy would be when he died, and being reminded once again that death was always waiting for them… hovering right above them…

"Please?"

B dug his fingernails into the soil. Why couldn't he just stand and leave like he should? Why was he hesitating so long over so simple a decision? Just walk away…

Slowly, as though his head weighed four times what it did, B raised up, his vision slowly filling up with a pair of folded legs in worn jeans, tanned hands resting in his lap, one still holding a pair of sunglasses, a red and yellow tee shirt under a light jacket, a large '76' emblazoned on one shoulder… B's head slowed to a halt, refusing to answer his order for it to continue lifting. B's gaze finished the upwards journey, and finally looked at Any's face through his short clipping of auburn bangs.

B found himself staring at a boy at least one year older than he was, probably a little more. His face, like his hands, was lightly tanned; a smattering of freckles decorated his nose and cheekbones. Taking in his entire form, Any proved to be quite chubby, closing in on fat. He had a full mouth, a small upturned nose, and bright green eyes that stared back at him under a messy thatch of sandy hair.

_Don't look,_ B told himself. _Just look at his face, stop at his hair, don't look up…_

It was useless. He could see them already, dancing just in his peripheral vision, beckoning him to take a closer look. All unwilling, B's traitorous eyes snapped up, finding Any's name, and his greatest secret, that even he didn't know.

_Anwyl Brice,_ followed by a string of numbers.

B saw the numbers, which were seemingly very random, but his eyes were accommodating to him, and translated them into a pattern he could understand. Without knowing exactly how he knew, the series above Any's head broke down and he knew that they meant. 66 years, 4 months, 5 days, 9 hours, and 23 minutes… how long this boy would enjoy life before it was taken away. If B knew his birthday and the time of day he was born, then simple math could tell him to within an hour when he would die, perhaps even the minute.

Doing his best to ignore the visible lifespan that fluttered and taunted, B focused on the name, Anwyl Brice… "A" was of course just a code given to him by the Wammy House, and "Any" was the name he had taken for himself, to protect his true name for whatever reasons. All of which was pointless to B, who saw through the disguise with a glance. The labels he saw didn't change to suit what a person called themselves, but remained what it had been the day they had been named. All he had to do to remember that was to look in a mirror, and see his own. For all of the aliases he had taken in his short life, the one in glowing letters never changed once.

B blinked, and realized that Anwyl… "A" was still staring at his eyes closely. The other boy didn't look particularly shaken, but there was a faint frown on his face as he studied B's red orbs. Mostly, there was interest in the other boy's expression, but B recognized the doubt that lurked in the corners. B wanted to look away as his eyes were scrutinized, but found that he couldn't, quite. Instead, he just stared back into Any's bright greens, and waited for his judgment.

Finally, when B thought he could no longer bear the strain of waiting, Any spoke, his light tone a touch forced. "Wow, they really are red."

B looked back down at the ground, expecting any number of taunts to be thrown at him.

"I think they're cool. Better than brown or blue."

B looked back up, a frown creasing his features. "You don't think…" B hesitated, not sure how to phrase what he wanted to say. "You don't think they're… weird?"

Any shrugged. "Sure, they're weird," he said with a self-conscious grin. "I've never seen red eyes before, and only ever heard of albinos having them. You don't look like an albino, so I guess that makes them a little strange."

"You aren't…" B's voice trailed away. He could tell that Any was trying, trying hard to not show signs of being uncomfortable. It wasn't as common a reaction as outright fear or misgiving, but it was one that he had seen before. By questioning Any so closely, he was setting himself up for disappointment, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Why would he be trying so hard?

Any's head tilted. "I'm not what?"

B took a breath. "You aren't scared?"

That same awkward, confused smile broke across Any's face. "Why would I be? It's just eye color. Not like you're some kind of monster or anything."

Directly on the heels of Any's statement that sounded like an echo, the rain that had been threatening finally made good on its promise, the front of it driving down to earth hard and heavy. Any hitched up his jacket over his head, groaning in disgust. "Jeez, couldn't it have held off a few more minutes?" He got up off the ground, and B followed his move. He wasn't sure he wanted to trail after the larger boy the entire way back in, but he certainly didn't want to stay and get soaked.

"Oh, here you go." B's glasses were handed back to him. "If you don't want the others to see, then you'll need these."

The shades were put in place almost as soon as his fingers curled around the frames. What was already dark from the thick rainclouds obscuring the sun became darker still. Any's label seemed to dim, but still hung there, visible as ever. B felt a little better once his eyes were hidden, but wished there was some way to block out what _he_ could see, not just what others did.

B followed Any in, just because it seemed ridiculous not to when the rain was coming down so hard. On their way through the doors leading to warmth and dryness, Any actually grinned at B, the former uneasiness seemingly disappeared. "Since we're going to be in the program together, I'll show you around." He shook his head hard, sending droplets from his hair flying. "It's an interesting place, Wammy House; you could probably use a tour."

The red eyed, dripping boy only nodded, hurrying past to get to the safety of his room as possible. Any seemed nice enough, but reality was beginning to set in for B once again. It was only a matter of time before Any decided B was too strange, and gave up whatever game he was playing at trying to become his friend. It would become too much work to ignore B's mutation, his particular moods, and what any other orphans might say about him when they discovered that he spent his time with B.

It was only a matter of time before the old pattern repeated itself, he knew; which was why he hadn't even picked out a name yet. Why choose a name for a place you would be leaving?

...

**_A/N2:_**_ (sigh) It's good to finally have this story moving forward. ^^ For anyone as yet unaware, Beyond Birthday is my favorite character out of all the DN characters, and yes, that includes all of the fourth generation Wammy boys. This particular story has been sitting in my mind and slowly developing over the last five or six months, and so it feels good to finally start really working on it. For anyone who's read Names and Numbers, the short preview to this, you can tell that we've got a long way to go before we reach the level of insanity seen there, so strap in._

_My goal with this project is to tell BB's story without filters. In Death Note: Another Note, (an awesome book, by the way), we're told the tale of the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases through Mello, who was told about it in turn from L, who, to be fair, took no in-person action in that case that we are aware of. From everything that we know, L never even met Beyond Birthday, and so in that sense had very little authority to tell what BB's true motives or drives might have been… besides the fact that L is known to be an inveterate liar. -.-;_

_Keeping that in mind, some small details will be altered somewhat, and in most cases, I'll be pointing back to our uncertainty as an audience as to what was true in DN:AN and what was false or simply misinformation. For the most part, I'm working hard to keep everything consistent not only with the novel, but with the DN manga and anime. The largest diversion I'll be making that is quite deliberate will be with BB's name. As the title suggests, the theme of names will be popping up again and again, and will eventually become part of the plot. The name Beyond Birthday is still in existence, the only difference is that here, it's not his real name, but another taken name. What's his 'real' name? Continue to read, and you may find out. ;D_

_Any other discrepancies should be minor in nature and self-explanatory as we reach them. Should I ever feel they need explaining, or more than one person questions it in reviews, I'll mention it in a follow-up Author's Note._

**_Special thanks goes out to my wonderfully patient Beta, and thank you all for reading. I hope to see you in the next chapter!_**


	2. Home

_**A/N:**__ Alrighty, first off, a great big, __huge__ 'Thank you!' goes out to everyone who has read and supported this fic! Only one chapter, and I've gotten a bunch of reviews, alerts, and favs already. Tis quite humbling, my readers, and I truly appreciate the support and encouragement I've received. *sniff*_

_Secondly I'd like to apologize for the long pause between chapters one and two. I considered this chapter to be something of a challenge to write, as we're still setting up, but we're past the initial introduction. Awkward half-way step, it was being quite resistive to being written. -.-; But, it is here at last, and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as the first chapter! _

_**Beta:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm._

_**Music:**__ '_Assassin's Creed Cello Trailer'_ by Jesper Kyd; '_Moonlight Sonata'_ by Ludwig van Beethoven._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Two, "Home"

Raven Ehtar

...

_"The ache for home lives in us all, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned."  
~ Maya Angelou ~_

_...  
_

Another three weeks had passed at the Wammy House since meeting Any, and it came as a surprise to B that the older boy had yet to leave him to his own devices. Certainly B was doing nothing to encourage any kind of interaction. If anything, he was trying to avoid being found by Any. The boy had an uncanny knack for sniffing out his hiding places, though, and a bizarre drive to find him over and over. Once found, he would then show B around his new home, as he said he would.

From the common rooms and dining hall, to the libraries and the classrooms, Any took B through them all, and there was plenty of information and at least one story to go along with each. What they were used for, the times of year each was used the most, the people you were most likely to find in them, a funny time when someone or other had been there… it seemed as though Any were stuffed with stories, and he was more than willing to share every one of them. His little tours weren't restricted to the main rooms of the building, either. Any took him everywhere; every corner of the attics, the cubbies under the stairs, and the pantry in the kitchen, every nook of the orphanage was explored.

B wondered, every time Any found him to tote him off on another part of his tour, why it was that he bothered. It was obvious to the younger boy that Any wasn't quite comfortable in his presence, although he did his best to mask that over. B never went anywhere without his sunglasses, but Any would occasionally stumble on him when they weren't in place, as he had the first time. Until the frames were on, B could sense anxiety coming from him. Until his red eyes were hidden, Any couldn't quite relax. It seemed strange to B that he would try so hard to befriend him, when it was clearly a chore, and when there were others at the orphanage he must have known better.

The new mission for the Wammy House's wards had only recently been put in place, but Any had lived there almost his entire life. He had been one of those that had already lived within its walls before the switch in intention and name, and was now being kept on as the first child in the program, as he showed quite a lot of promise. It was how he knew so much about the building and its goings on, and how he could act as the official tour guide for the new kid.

Although B was rapidly losing his status as 'the new kid'. Each passing day, it seemed, the ranks of orphans already in residence dwindled, and an occasional new arrival was added. Any's prediction that those who were not deemed worthy of the new program would be placed in different facilities had proven right, and the new, presumably more intelligent children were slowly arriving to take their places. B was somewhat relieved at this slow change. He knew from experience that it was always the freshest face that received the harshest scrutiny. He had been waiting for that telling amount of attention to descend on him, for the curiosity to get the better of the children at the orphanage and for his eyes to be discovered. In two weeks, only Any had become interested enough, and after him, B had expected a flood. Even if Any never said a word to another soul about his eyes, B was still the new one, and eventually he would be investigated.

But with all of the arrivals, B was becoming lost in the small rush of new children. Those who had resided at the Wammy House for considerable time now had to choose who they wanted to find out more about: B or almost a dozen others. As long as B didn't do anything to draw attention to himself, he could use the influx as camouflage.

It also provided B with an advantage he had never experienced before: with the new children coming in, and the 'old' leaving at the rate they were, _B_ was fast becoming one of those already established in the hierarchy. It was an odd feeling, being someone who was not the greenhorn trying to fit in, but to be seen as someone to try and fit in _with_. It didn't really matter that he hadn't even been there two months; all that those coming in knew was that he was already there, and that _they_ were encroaching on _his_ home. It felt very strange, that role reversal, but it worked in his favor. The children coming before him were too distracted by the number of new orphans and their own changing circumstances, and the ones coming after him saw him as someone to defer to. So long as B did nothing to change that himself, he should be left on his own.

On his own save for one, who was very determined to stay by B's side almost constantly. With all of the changes to the old system and the installation of the new one, B wondered if that was the reason Any had decided to stick by him so closely. All of his old friends would be leaving, so he was trying to find a new one. But if that was the case, why not one of the other new children, now that more were appearing? Any was still uncomfortable around him, so why did he force himself?

It was too much for B to try and figure out, and eventually it became too much trouble to try and avoid, as well. He stopped trying to hide from Any, who always seemed to find him out, and focused instead on avoiding everyone else. If the older boy was so determined to seek him out, then B wouldn't make it any harder for him. He just wouldn't make it any easier, either.

He followed Any around after his battery of classes and tests were done for the day, listening with half an ear as he went on and on about the orphanage. Rather than confining himself to just the history and layout of the Wammy House, Any also went through what he knew about the program. The purpose and aim, the layout of tests and assessments, who was involved, how those in charge picked out likely candidates… If B had been listening with his full attention he would have learned a lot.

The truth was, the longer he spent in Any's company, the more he came to like the boy, despite his little annoyances, and that was making him uncomfortable. Even more hazardous than enjoying classes and lessons, coming to like another person was to be avoided. An attachment to a thing was painful enough when it was taken away, breaking a bond formed with another person would hurt far too much. It would be better if he continued to avoid Any, to prevent himself from forming that attachment…

Except that it was enjoyable, in a way, to have someone just chatting to you, regardless of whether or not you replied. It was nice to hear someone else speak, and to be shown around his new home like he would be staying. It was a horrible temptation to give in, to let Any claim a part of him, to form a friendship. It was also a temptation that he did not often come across, so he had no defenses against it. It was very difficult to keep himself detached from Any on their almost daily rambles.

He just had to remember that Any was still uncomfortable with him, that his eyes were still a source of apprehension, and that made it a little easier to keep his distance. By isolating himself or by staying in Any's company, he would eventually be back to his solitude. If he stayed with Any, the elder would ultimately become too uncomfortable, and would leave B on his own.

B would be alone again, and safe. All he had to do was wait.

While he waited, he toured the orphanage and grounds with Any, took his lessons and tests, learned - albeit somewhat reluctantly - about the place he lived and the people he lived with, and wondered where it would be that he drifted to next. It had been a remarkably long time with no one other than Any taking note of his eyes, and it seemed less and less likely that anyone would deliberately try to find out why it was he hid them. Almost long enough to think that he might stay at the Wammy House until he was old enough to leave on his own. He wasn't so naïve as to think that any family might adopt him. No one would take in a case like him when there were much easier charges to choose from. But the Wammy House didn't seem particularly concerned about whether or not he would ever be adopted. Their primary focus was the same as it ever was: to groom their wards to some specific task. B was still somewhat fuzzy on what that task was.

However, when B felt the temptation to strive harder at his studies in the hopes that better marks would secure his place, he stifled it. There was no point. The only reason he was ranked in the number two spot, as 'B', was because he happened to be the second taken on by the orphanage after Any. As more arrived and began taking the same tests that he was taking, B expected his standing to drop dramatically. The Wammy House had taken him on because they expected him to achieve something great. They would find themselves disappointed in that expectation, B knew. He was nothing special; there was nothing extraordinary about him, save his eyes, which were more curse than blessing. His grades in school had been only slightly above average at best, and completely run-of- the-mill more often. Whatever potential they saw in him, it would pale in comparison to the potential in the others that were slowly filling the halls.

That disappointment would be another reason to send him on. His failure to meet their expectations would lose him one of the better shelters he'd had in years.

So B's days and weeks passed him by in a conflicting, confusing blur: the tests that were his continuing justification for remaining, and his future condemnation. The rambles with Any that were both pleasant and a bittersweet torture of anticipation. The fear of finally being discovered, and the tiny, lurking hope that it would happen soon, and put an end to his torment.

It would take quite a jolt to shake B out of his daze, something even stranger in his already odd routine. After three weeks of discovering every dusty corner of the orphanage and every interesting patch of dirt on the immediate grounds, Any provided that jolt. Since everything within easy walking distance had been seen and expounded upon to within an inch of its life, Any decided to take B to a place that required the accompaniment of an adult, and which had gained some importance since the introduction of the new system.

A graveyard.

Somehow, B had allowed himself to be shuffled into a car and driven the few miles from one place to another, with Any jabbering away contentedly to him in the backseat without quite realizing where it was they were headed. Only when they stepped out of the tiny vehicle and began walking down the winding pathway, their chaperone and driver following a little distance behind, did it dawn on B's muddled mind where they were.

The footpath they walked along twisted through sown trees, which looked as though they were receiving some long overdue trimming and paring down. Between the trunks there was an occasional tombstone. Most were overgrown with weeds and so out of the way that they were all but invisible, but a couple showed signs of the same belated care as the trees. On some of those stones, which were all painfully simple and unornamented, the names and dates could be read.

B stopped in the middle of the path, staring at one of the cleared stones. Marie Merrill; December 28, 1976 - January 10, 1990.

He was vaguely aware that Any stopped, noticing that his companion was no longer with him, and came back to stand next to him. Not taking note of B's attitude towards the stone, Any spoke as he always did on their walkabouts.

"That's one of the really old graves," he said, his light tone unaffected by the subject matter. "Back in the day this place was used mostly to bury drifters. No one came to tend the graves, really, because there were never many in the way of surviving family to visit them. Because it was so under cared for and there were nicer yards closer to town, this one was used less and less. I don't think there's been anyone buried here for years, actually, it's become so unpopular." He looked over at B, who was still studying the etching in the stone.

"Since the Wammy House started," he continued, "they've bought up this land, too, and started cleaning it up and making some additions."

B shook himself a little, feeling like he was waking up from a nap, and quickly injected himself into Any's steady stream. The elder boy had one of those personalities that would have him talking almost constantly for hours, regardless of whether or not he got a response. He was perfectly content to provide all of the conversation, so long as there was someone to listen. He never objected to another voice joining in, however. "What kinds of additions?"

Any took a breath, given a new course to talk about. "Well, they're going to be building a little watch house back close to where we parked, they'll be expanding the lot so more cars can park at once, there'll be a fence around the whole place with a gate, a groundskeeper will be hired to keep everything neat, and there's the new section of the yard that we're going to see."

B let out the breath he'd been holding during Any's run-on sentence. It was hard to breathe sometimes when he got going like that. There were a couple times over the last few weeks where B had felt dizzy, forgetting that he _could_ breathe while Any spoke. He took his shielded eyes away from the grave to look at Any obliquely. Not long ago that would have meant that the other boy would have been able to see the red coloring around the edge of the frames, but now B's vision was as darkened in that direction as when he looked straight ahead. He was wearing a new wraparound set, given to him by Any a week before. He'd said that it was to make it harder for anyone else to catch sight of his eyes, but B couldn't help but think that it was also to make it harder for himself to see them.

He raised an eyebrow at Any, shoving aside his suspicions. "How do you know all of this? They didn't tell everyone at the orphanage, did they?"

The other boy grinned a little sheepishly. "Nah, but you know, you hear things going around." His own bright green eyes flicked back towards their 'guide', who was still a step or two behind them, to all appearances keeping his attention on the surrounding scenery, but occasionally checking to make sure his charges were where they were supposed to be.

B nodded. For all of his inattentiveness over the weeks, he had learned a little about Any from his insinuations and hints. One thing he had learned was that the older boy had a habit of eavesdropping on the conversations of their custodians, on a regular basis. It was almost a habit for him, and he was apparently very good at it, rarely getting caught. What he knew about this place, along with many other little pieces of information, had been learned on such ventures. But he couldn't say so in front of an adult.

"What part are we going to go see, again?"

Any pointed down the path, the way they had been walking before B had stopped to study Marie's stone. "The new section that the Wammy House is adding onto the original yard. It's where most of the work has been happening, since the new section is _huge_. There's all kinds of landscaping they're doing down that way, lots of planning and folks being brought in to arrange all of the new graves properly…"

Once again, as Any had gotten into a comfortable rhythm, B almost immediately started tuning out a little bit, his voice just becoming another piece of background noise until something caught his attention: "New graves?"

Any nodded. "Yeah, why else do you think an orphanage would buy up a graveyard? They're making new graves for us."

The older boy didn't seem in the least bit perturbed by the idea that the place that sheltered them was also planning for when they died, but it made B pause. Why would they have something like this in place? Did they expect so many of their wards to pass before they could find new homes? It's not like it never happened, children dying in such places. There were accidents, illnesses, and the occasional runaway who was found later when they couldn't run anymore… But not so often that would justify a private graveyard to hold them all.

Any was walking away again, still going on about the various changes that were taking place, expecting B to keep up. He sighed and followed the other boy. He wanted to ask why it was the Wammy House had bought this place, but had the sneaking suspicion that he had already been told once, and just hadn't been listening. Most likely Any would get around to it again in his ramblings without B needing to prompt him; he just needed to catch it when he started talking about that particular subject.

"… and they're hiring a bunch of landscapers as well to take care of the tree planting in the new section to make it all as private as possible, and there's going to be a small garden with benches…"

But he didn't need to listen just now. While Any talked away merrily about the different developments and rumors about the graveyard, B let his mind wander again.

As odd and random a place as it seemed to be, B couldn't honestly say that he was surprised they were in a graveyard. Not because he had been expecting to visit one or because he thought the Wammy House might boast one as an accessory allotment, but just because it seemed the kind of place where he would find himself wandering through. He was reminded on a daily basis of just how long everyone had to live, that all would eventually die, so why not visit the place where everyone came?

While some might have felt some kind of sadness or regret walking down a lane hedged with the dead, B felt nothing more than resignation. He knew, as a constant conscious certainty that everyone he met would one day die and be buried. Witnessing the cold conclusion to a promise was nothing.

Rather than feeling any sort of detached grief, B found himself fascinated by the stones themselves, for all their simplicity. While he had wandered around with Any over the last weeks, he had noticed that they always seemed to find the places where there were very few or no other children at all. He suspected this was a deliberate set up by Any, to keep his eyes from being discovered, but it had the added bonus of keeping him from having to see the floating labels. The only one he had to see while on their tours was Any's, which was far preferable to several or dozens all at once.

Here, it seemed he was being mocked, and in more ways than one. The only humans to be seen were Any and their chaperone, only their names and numbers were visible. The dead did not have labels. Once their life was over, the figures burnt themselves out and left only empty air. Even in photos, once the life was gone, so were their names and the time they had left. It was a vital sign that couldn't be fooled, and only B could see it.

Instead of glowing numbers and letters, the dead had stones, where almost the exact same information was set into granite. A name and the dates of birth and death. It wasn't quite the same as what B saw, which was how long a person was to live, their lifespan, but with math it was the same. The numbers clicked over and rearranged themselves in his mind, and it was like he was looking at someone alive, only their labels showing above the ground.

It was as though those left behind were attempting to instill some kind of semblance of life to the corpses, giving them their labels back, set into stone and lasting. Like pretending that the dead were really alive made it seem like _they_ wouldn't die. Except B knew that it was nothing of the sort. No one was aware that their names and the duration of their life hovered above them all their lives, and was only snuffed out when their hearts stopped beating. The only time when anyone could see what B saw every day, and knew what he did, was after death.

And it was only after _his_ death when his numbers would finally be known to anyone.

Another little quirk of his cursed eyes and one that both confused and frightened him was that he could never see his own numbers. The same figures that he saw for every other person were missing for him. He knew the age every one of his classmates and teachers would be when they drew their last breath, but not for himself. No matter how long he stared into his mirror, the numbers never appeared for him. Only his name hung there, the forbidden name he was never to tell anyone, and not even the ones who had taken him in at the orphanage knew.

It was strange to think that he would never know that about himself, when he knew it for everyone else. He would die, and be buried, his stone revealing to all the one thing he never knew.

It wasn't fair. Why should he be made to know when everyone was going to die, and they could go about their lives in happy ignorance? Why should he be constantly aware of _their_ deaths, but be oblivious to his own?

It wasn't fair, and it scared him.

When would he die, or would he ever die? Was that why his were missing, because he would never die? The idea of being destined to only watch the world around him fail and fall, while not ever finding that release himself was almost more frightening than not knowing when he would die. Maybe it was true that he wasn't completely human. Perhaps he had the eyes of a demon, and that made him some sort of half-breed. Perhaps, when the time came, the demons would drag him down into hell, where he would be back among his own kind, instead of stuck in the company of humans.

The trees suddenly fell away, leaving the two boys in an open and hilly clearing, almost completely bare. Here and there were signs of the work Any had mentioned. There were barrows and shovels, tools left atop stacks of rolled sod… and there were graves.

Not proper graves, there were no stones and they weren't even dug, but they were marked off. The places where there would be graves were all sectioned off by ropes strung only a few inches off of the ground. Presumably it was to make it easier, knowing exactly where future graves would be, but that's not what struck B. What he noticed most was there were so many of them.

He also noticed that there was an unfamiliar silence hanging in the air. Any had stopped talking.

B looked over, and found the heavy-set boy was already turned toward him, watching his expression. He smiled a little when B met his gaze through the darkly tinted lenses. "And this is the Wammy House section," he said, one arm sweeping out to encompass the open area.

B blinked at the theatrical 'unveiling', but didn't reply to it. He just followed again as Any began walking between the empty grave plots. For some reason, Any decided to stop his narration of anything and everything they saw, and wove his way around in silence. It wasn't as though there was much to look at, since there weren't even any stones to read here.

The lack of visual stimulation, but more pointedly the unfamiliar lack of sound, began to bother B as it stretched on, and he did something he had never had to do before when with the elder boy. He prompted for dialogue. "Why does the Wammy House need this many? Wouldn't just a few be enough?"

The light brown hair tossed from side to side as Any shook his head in front of him. "Not with how many they're planning on making a part of the new program. I heard that they're planning on working their way through the whole alphabet a few times, so that means a lot of graves."

B frowned. He was missing something here, he was sure. "They don't expect us all to die, do they? The material's not _that_ hard."

Any laughed, more at B's confusion than his weak attempt at a joke, and looked back over his shoulder at him. "You don't remember what I told you at all, do you?"

B felt his ears heat up, and shook his head. He hadn't forgotten, he rarely forgot anything; he'd just not been paying attention. He wasn't likely to admit that, however.

"It's not that they expect us all to keel over from exhaustion," Any said, smile still in place. "We'll live at the institution, and when we're old enough we'll move on and live on own. Make our own lives in the world the way we were trained to, have families, whatever. But when we do die, our bodies will be brought back here to be buried." Again, Any swept an arm out to indicate the empty and developing yard behind him. "It's safer this way, considering we're all trying to take over the title of L. Any one of us could lead his enemies back to him, even dead, so we come back here."

"L?" B felt like he should know what that meant, it tugged hard at his memory, but all he could think was a child given the code 'L'. They hadn't quite made it that far into the alphabet, though, so it certainly wasn't that.

Any's laughter died away when he realized what B was asking, an incredulous look spread over his features, and even his numbers seemed to settle a little in their constant motion. B felt more embarrassed than ever. The look told him without doubt that he should know about 'L'. "You mean no one's _told_ you? How could you not know?"

Teeth bit into his lower lip, B shrugged. He hated not having the answer to something, and this was obviously something he _should_ know. "I think," he said slowly, memory grinding gears a little, "that Roger said something about L… but I can't remember." He had been ready to drop where he stood when he had been brought to that office, after all. It was somewhat understandable if he hadn't been paying strict attention.

Any stared a moment longer before launching into a subject he clearly enjoyed. "L is the world's greatest detective," he said with an air of hero worship. "He's solved hundreds of cases all over the world that no one else could, not even teams of other detectives together. He takes on the hardest and most bizarre cases and solves every single one without ever showing his face, to keep himself safe. He's put so many people in prison that he's got contacts put on him all over the world. And he came from _this_ orphanage, before it became the Wammy House. He used to live here, and even cracked his first case here, when he was still a child." Any's grin was back in its usual place, and so wide that it threatened to take in his ears. Obviously he held L in the highest regard possible, and B wondered how much of what he was saying was true and how much was exaggeration. "And that's what we're here for," he continued, "to train and become proper replacements when L is ready to step down."

"So he doesn't have a name, either? He's a letter like us?"

A quick nod. "Yep, an alias to protect his identity. The same for us too, as well as the ranking thing. The closer to the beginning of the alphabet you are, the closer to L you are."

"Closer to L?"

"Closer to succeeding him, to becoming heir to the title." Any started walking again, making B trot to keep up. "That's what all of the studies, tests, and the examinations are for. To see how fit we are to become L and to turn us into his protégés. We're meant to be the next generation of greats."

B looked at Any askance at his last comment, but his quizzical, speckled look went unnoticed by Any, who was well into a roll about L.

The next generation of greats, eh? A bunch of homeless kids without families were supposed to take over for this apparently super-human detective just because they were a little smarter than average? Even with smarts and the education offered at Wammy House, it would take more for the kind of work detectives did. Creativity was needed, as well as intuition, drive, and the ability to create an entire picture out of tiny pieces… it was a lot to ask of a ragtag bunch of orphans. Many would be falling out of the program before long, and not just B.

Although, the Wammy House really did not seem interested at all in sending their wards on to find families. In all the days and weeks he had been here, B had only seen the adults that were here to cook for, watch over, or teach the children. He had yet to see a single one that was a hopeful parent in search of surrogate offspring. All the facility seemed concerned with was finding that successor to 'L'. And the closer you were to the beginning, the closer you were to him, according to Any.

With that little piece of information in mind, an idea began to take shape in B's mind. It seemed a likely scenario that the closer you were to becoming that heir, the more valuable you were to the institution. The more valuable, and therefore less likely to be sent on again. If B could find a way to keep from causing any kind of disturbance, and to stay high enough in the ranks, then he might actually be able to call this place home until he was old enough to leave on his own feet. He was 'B' already, so he just had to stay where he was or close in his exams, and then…

Then he might have a home at last.

It was some reason to hope, and no matter how hard he tried to suppress it, it welled up in B. After so long and so many different roofs covering him, it would be nice to finally have a place that wasn't where he lived, but counted as 'home'.

With an unfamiliar feeling of determination, B listened carefully as Any continued to chatter away about L, world's greatest detective. If he wanted to keep his place here, then he should do what he could to become a good replacement.

...

_**A/N2:**__ It occurred to me as I was writing this chapter that I forgot to mention a little game that I'm playing with this fic. In each chapter, or at least in each chapter where the opportunity presents itself, I will be slipping in little word or number games for you all to figure out. This is to keep myself entertained, and as an allusion to __Another Note__, where such things were practically on every page. In chapter one, the number '13' appeared at least twice, in code, and there is something special I'm going to do with A's names based off their letters. In this chapter, the number '1313' appears twice, again in code. One is fairly simple to find, the other incredibly hard. Cyber pocky and wara ningyo dolls to anyone who can spot them! XD_

_Also, for my fellow audiophiles out there, I am putting together a playlist of the music that I use often while writing this fic on my YouTube account. If you're interested, the link to my channel is on my profile page, just click and look under my playlists, you can't miss it. ^^_

_And one last note, this is most likely the last chapter of 'WMN?' that will be uploaded until December. There's a very good reason for this, and again I refer everyone who's curious to look on the profile page on my bulletin board for more info. Never fear, I am not tired of or abandoning this fic. I have the sneaking suspicion that my Beta might consume my soul if she thought that was the case. ;D _

_**Thanks again to all who read, review, fav, and alert! The support means the world to me!**_


	3. Predecessor

_**A/N:**__ And she's back, she comes back with a vengeance! (rowr) _

_Alright then, I'm finally back from my first crazy year of NaNoWriMo, and all I'm going to say here is that it is not for the faint of heart, or for those who don't have a support system of people willing to force feed you for a month. ._

_Anyway, to make up for lost time, chapter three is quite long. Somehow I managed to not only churn out a 50K+ novel in a month, (Yes, I won. XD), I also got some fanfiction done as well. See how much I love you all? ;D For the continuing game/challenge to find hidden 'B's', in this chapter we have something a little new. In two places one B and two L's show up, (BLL, LBL, or LLB), and in another two 'BB's' show up. Can you find them?_

_As always, sincere thanks go out to those who show their support, and even those who just read and enjoy. Love in vast quantities to you all!_

_**Beta:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm._

_**Music: **_'Jiro's Guitar, Part 1'_ from Android Kikaider the Animation; _'L's Theme'_ by __Yoshihisa Hirano and Hideki Taniuchi. (__**Note:**__ I'm still putting all used tunes into a playlist on my YouTube account. If you're having trouble finding any of these, that's a place to find them. ;3)_

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'. Also true name reveals from this point forward are a possibility._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

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What's My Name?

Part Three, "Predecessor"

Raven Ehtar

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"_Do well and you will have no need for ancestors."  
~ Voltaire ~_

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The alphabet song, B decided, would never sound quite the same to him ever again. A simple child's song whose only point was to teach the order of letters, it now carried a lot more implied meaning for B. There was a face and a smattering of personality to go with every letter, now. Four months had passed since he had been brought to the Wammy House, and there were a total of twenty-five new orphans, which made the alphabet complete with Any. Only a few remained who did not belong in the program.

Any had long since run out of places to show to B. Even his habit of running off at the mouth couldn't keep him going forever, although he did try. Since hearing about the great detective they were meant to be emulating, though, B had done what he could to get Any to talk about L, about the program, and what exactly it was that the institution wanted from them as replacements. The older boy was more than happy to talk, especially when encouraged to, and even more especially about L. Whenever the detective was the topic of conversation, it seemed as though he could and would literally go on for hours at a time unless someone stopped him. His admiration of the detective was obvious the way he would talk about him. The more he heard, the more B wondered at the far-fetched assertions of Any's. The boy insisted, however, that everything he told B was absolutely true, and it was just because it was all so remarkable that it sounded like exaggeration.

It was hard, listening to Any jabber on about the many feats and qualities of L, to not catch a little of his energy and enthusiasm.

It was easier to concentrate on things that would secure his position at the orphanage, but didn't deal directly with the goal itself, such as his studies. While he was still certain that they would be looking at more than test scores to decide who was best suited to become the heir, it was all B had to go on for now. They certainly wouldn't be taking on any dim-witted orphans, so B just had to convince everyone that he was even more intelligent. He'd expected, as more and more came to and crowded the Wammy House halls, that it would become more difficult to hold his position. But no, he'd been surprised on that point. He was definitely investing more energy into the curriculum than before, but he wasn't at full stretch, either. Yet, here he was, at the number two spot, "B", with no one very likely to outdo him any time soon.

Another surprise came when Any offered to help him with his studies when he noticed that B was becoming more focused on them. There was no reason for him not to, B supposed, except for the fact that Any was still a little leery around him. He'd gotten much better over the last couple of months to not show that, but it was still there. It baffled him why the boy would spend time, voluntarily, with someone who made him feel uncomfortable.

B had almost given up questioning it, though. If Any was getting better at hiding his discomfort, then so was he.

It was working, though. Whatever it was that he was doing that kept him high in the ranks and all of the others away from him, it was working. Maybe it was his habit of isolation, maybe it was the fact that Any was with him whenever he _was_ seen. Who could tell? B was just glad it worked whatever it was.

Today was a gloomy day, with steel gray skies that threatened snow, the first of the season. B pressed his forehead against the chilled glass of his bedroom window, looking down on the little playground it looked over. His room was on the second floor, and while he didn't have a panoramic view, he could see across the grounds.

Not that there was very much to see at the moment. Since the outside was so uninviting today, everyone would be indoors, cramming themselves into the playrooms, common rooms, anywhere where they could stay warm. Hence why B was holed up in his room. It was far too easy to get caught up in a knot of other children when they were all inside and bored out of their minds.

One of his thumbs found a certain groove in the wood grain of the windowsill. It was a very straight, very deep little groove that had nothing to do with how the tree had grown. B had found a small, nearly useless pocket knife a couple weeks ago and had taken it to the wood. While it was far too dull to actually cut or slice anything tougher than butter, it _could_ gouge if applied with enough force.

It was just a straight line dug in deep to the planed fibers, a few layers shaved away to leave a new pattern. It didn't mean anything and he had no plans or intentions for it, but it made B feel better to have done it. Here, at least, was something tangible and tactile, a small proof that he had been here. A tiny anchor into the world, proving that he was existent and could affect the reality around him.

When the time came for him to leave the Wammy House, at least there was that much.

The sound of footsteps running down the hallway outside his door shook B a little more awake. It was most likely someone gotten too energetic and boisterous, and was being left to tear around the halls in the hopes they would tire themselves out.

B was proved wrong when his door flew open, hitting the wall behind it with a bang.

B jumped, startled and instantly on guard, but it was only Any standing in his doorway, gripping the frame and panting heavily from his mad dash down the hall. B stared. He'd never seen Any actually _run_ anywhere. He was energetic enough, but in a laidback kind of way. He could walk and talk for days on end, but he had never increased his speed beyond a brisk walk in front of B.

"Roger's… office…" he gasped each word out, pointing back behind himself in the direction of the stairs. "Your… turn… to meet… him…"

"What?" B stood up. Any sounded worked up, but at the same time he wasn't panicked, so the automatic dread at the mention of Roger's office died down a little. "My turn to meet who?"

Any sucked down a couple of breaths, the biggest grin B had even seen practically splitting the boy's head in two. "L!"

_... _

_L…?_

Any, catching his breath at last, began jabbering away how L had come to see each of the children that were being trained to be his replacements now that they had everyone from A to Z. Any had just been in to meet with him, and then sent to tell the next in line that it was his turn to meet the detective. It was the first time Any had actually met the man he admired so much, and he stumbled over his words in an attempt to describe the experience.

B, meanwhile, only paid nominal attention to his friend gushing. He was trying to absorb the idea that L was at the Wammy House and that he wanted to see _him_. Any had told the red-eyed boy a lot about the mysterious detective, and some of his obvious hero worship had rubbed off, infecting B with a little of his burning obsession.

_L_… The man who was a legend in the field of detective work and law enforcement, the man all twenty-six of them were meant to duplicate and one day replace. He was the reason they were all here, the reason they weren't all still trapped in their own tiny worlds, and had been given this opportunity. He was the reason, and he could probably send any one of them away, or all of them, if he decided he didn't care for them.

B's stomach performed an unpleasant flip-flop at the thought. He had been doing his best to keep his scores up and to study what he could of the profession he was meant to take part of. He'd pumped Any for all of the information on the man himself, and had even hunted up a little of the limited public information available on the reclusive sleuth. What if it wasn't enough, though? Or what if L just took a personal dislike to him?

B had avoided the scenario of the other orphans discovering his eyes, and he was still comfortably in the second place in the ranking system. Those were the things that he had some measure of control over, but how could he control how someone felt about him?

"… and now it's your turn to meet him!" Any was finishing, his eyes still shining with excitement. "He can't stay long and wants to meet everyone, so you'd best hurry down there."

The flipped stomach twisted into a sick knot. With no warning, he was supposed to meet L in person? B could almost feel the blood drain from his face at the thought. "What do I say, Any? What does he want to know?"

Any frowned, hearing the alarm in B's tone. "Just basic stuff, B. Say whatever you want, whatever the truth is. You don't have to be scared about meeting him."

B bit into his lip. Telling the truth about everything might not be the best option available. Some things were better left off hidden, such as the more improbable aspects of his eyes. A hand came up to cover over one of his garnets, which were still exposed. "But what about…?"

Another smile made its way across Any's face, this one only slightly marred by the nervousness that was always present when attention was brought to B's reds. "What, you think L is going to care about that? He's L; he won't about the color of your eyes. He'll just care about you."

B didn't reply. Easy enough to say that someone wouldn't be affected by his eyes, but there was no way Any could know that for sure.

Deciding it would be best to get it over and done with right away, B picked up his sunglasses, put them in place, and began the walk that would take him to Roger's office.

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After knocking nervously on the heavy wooden door and receiving a slightly muffled call for him to come in, B entered the office. It wasn't dark inside, but the door was directly across from the window. While it wasn't a bright day, there was enough light to backlight everything for B, making it hard to make anything out. He could hardly miss the silhouettes of the two figures waiting for him, though. One sat behind the large wood desk and the other stood just in front of it, facing the door and B. If for no other reason, the names and numbers still burned brightly, drawing B's stained gaze to them.

_Roger Ruvie_; 85 years, 2 months, 1 week, 9 hours, 12 minutes. He was the figure that sat behind the desk.

B's eyes flicked over to L, a square-ish outline in the light, and looked up to where his name would be hanging. A name no one was meant to know, B would have it before the man even spoke.

_Quillish Wammy_; 93 years, 10 months, 3 weeks, 5 days, 1 hour, 42 minutes.

He blinked behind his glasses. 'Wammy'? As in the name of the orphanage? That was the name of the founder, and weren't the founder and the detective supposed to be separate people? That was what B thought the arrangement was, but… it made sense if they were the same person. The man who wanted to create a replacement to himself had put the orphanage and program into place, and then spread the rumor of a second person floating around somewhere. Sneaky, but again, useless to B's eyes.

Roger's voice snapped the young boy out of his musings. "Please come in, B, and close the door behind you."

B obeyed, stepping into the room a little hesitantly, but with a tiny reassurance, as well. He knew something they didn't think he knew, didn't think he could know, and it made him feel a little bit better while standing before the secretive detective. If L held an entire hand of advantages over him, then B held one over him.

As the two adults came more into focus, B concentrated his full attention on L, who was really Mr. Wammy. B wasn't sure what he had expected L to look like, exactly, but the image he was faced with looked professional enough to be a world famous detective. He was dressed in an expensive looking dark blue suit and tie, standing straight and reserved, and his hair combed back neatly. His expression as he watched B come close was about as neutral as was possible. What B hadn't expected was his age. From what Any had told him, he'd assumed L was a comparatively young detective, part of his fame deriving not just from the difficulty of his cases, but also from his youth.

The man standing in front of him had left his young days long behind him. The combed hair was salt and pepper and showing signs of receding, and the trimmed mustache was completely white. Fine lines spider-webbed from the corners of his mouth and eyes, which were a light, gentle blue sparkle behind his round spectacles. Everything in his face gave the impression of wear and softness, which was something B had not been expecting to find in a crime fighter, however reclusive he was.

B felt a little disappointed.

Mr. Wammy - L - smiled as B came to a stop about five feet away from him. "Hello, B," he said, even his voice as soft and worn as an old sweater. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Still feeling tongue-tied despite his disappointment, B could only nod back in greeting. A quick glance back at the desk showed Roger watching, but demonstrating no sign of participating in the exchange.

"I understand," L said, "from Roger and the instructors here that you are doing quite well, academically." L's head tilted a fraction. "How are you settling in personally? Are you comfortable, making friends?"

Again, B nodded, and also managed to speak. "Yes, sir, one. I've made friends with Any; he's been showing me around and helping me with my studies."

L nodded. "Yes, we'd heard that from Any, as well. It's good to hear that he seems to have made a good friend at last." At that he glanced over at Roger, who made a noise of agreement and nodded.

"And you, B?" L continued. "Have you made any other friends?"

B shook his head, feeling younger with each passing question. This felt like the kind of questioning he would get from his parents after his first day of school. "No, sir. Just Any."

"Why is that?"

A shrug and a look down at the carpet between his bare feet. "Don't know. Just haven't, I guess."

There was a slight pause before L spoke again, and B could feel his shoulders begin to tighten. Finally, "Your studies, then. Do you find them enjoyable?"

This at least was a safer line of questioning. B nodded eagerly. "Yes, I do. They're all interesting."

L smiled, and it made him look like a grandfather. He was probably old enough to be one, he looked older than Roger. "From what we can see, you are striving quite hard at them."

"Yes."

"Could you tell me the reason for that enthusiasm?"

B picked his head up to look L straight in the eye, if still behind the shield of his sunglasses. "To become a good replacement for you."

L looked briefly surprised, but the expression was lost on B, who started at the sound of a voice that was neither Roger's nor L's.

"Now that is very interesting."

B's head snapped to the left side of the room, where the new voice had come from. That wall was lined with books and in a little bit of a shadow, but there was an overstuffed chair there, as well, facing away from them. As B watched, what he had thought was a patch of darker shadow moved, becoming a black, mussed head of hair that turned, revealing a young, pale face. "Why would you want to be a 'replacement' for W?"

B could feel his mouth begin to drop open, leaving him slack-jawed. As the boy - because he was far too young to classify as a _man_ - turned his face toward him, his red and flickering label slowly materialized above him, burning itself into existence and into B's memory.

_L Lawliet_. 53 years, 11 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 8 hours, 1 minute.

L Lawliet… this was L, and not Quillish Wammy? B looked over at the older man, who was only standing and smiling quietly now. The dark headed boy had called him 'W', so B wasn't supposed to know his identity, either. That was important to remember.

The dark corner with the young man staring out at him like an owl drew B's tainted gaze back around. His name, L Lawliet, L… was this supposed to be the great detective? His label said as much, but wasn't 'L' supposed to be an alias? He was using his real name and telling everyone that it was fake…? It was clever; no one would think they had discovered his true name when all they could find was a letter.

But… him? Mr. Wammy had seemed too old, but… 'L' looked much, much too young. He looked only a few years older than B, who was only ten. How could he have done even half the things he was said to have done when he was so young?

The face, already twisted around at an extreme angle, tilted quizzically at him like a weird contortionist's trick. "Well?" the boy L said blandly. "Do you have an answer for that?"

Remembering how to swallow, B did so forcefully before speaking hesitantly. "Are you L?"

Dark, dark eyes bored into B, refusing to blink. "That's correct. I am L."

"Then… then I thought Mr.-- W was you. I want to be a good replacement for L."

L was silent for a full minute. B had to remind himself to not let his eyes wander up to the shimmering figures dancing above the boy's head, but it was hard. He'd never seen someone whose name, their true name, was just a letter. Why had he been named just 'L'? He was an orphan as well; could that have something to do with it? And Lawliet… there was another strange name. What ethnicity would that be? L didn't look like a full-blooded anything, but he was in shadow, only his face partially visible. Maybe if he got closer, it would be easier to guess.

In an uncanny answer to B's thoughts, L finally spoke. "Please come around here, B, in front of me,"

B obeyed readily, if with some small measure of trepidation. The corner was thickly shadowed, and as B turned to face L he discovered that once again, the one he was trying to focus on was backlit. His sunglasses helped to even out the contrast somewhat, just enough to make out the boy in the armchair.

He was sitting in the armchair in an almost fetal position, bare feet sunk into the cushion, knees drawn up to his chest, and his back bent to curl himself around his thighs. His clothes, as well as his youth, were a stark contrast to Mr. Wammy. Instead of anything even remotely professional, he wore a pair of jeans that looked two sizes too big, the same as the long sleeved white cotton shirt he wore. They both looked as though he slept in them, they were so wrinkled. He was thin, even through the oversized clothes and the curled posture B could see that he was almost unhealthily thin. Black hair a disheveled mess, skin so pale B could swear he could see the veins underneath, a pouting mouth… He looked like an oversized, willful kid of about seven. The coffee table standing between them only worked to further the impression, as it was loaded down with dozens of sweets and sweet drinks. Candy, cookies, cake, doughnuts, ice cream… B's mouth began to water a little in spite of himself.

The only thing that kept B from writing this adolescent off entirely was his eyes. L's eyes. Huge, round and black, they practically leapt out of the face framing them. Dark bags like smudged kohl only made them appear even larger, and gave L his only feature that lent the impression of age. More than any physical feature of his eyes, though, was just how _intensely_ he looked at B. They had yet to blink once, and they refused to let B look away, drawing him in like twin black holes, their gravity irresistible as they pulled him in and crushed him…

Behind their glasses, B's own reds began to water in sympathy. Cover or not, he had the impression that L would know if he blinked or let his gaze drift away. For all his nervousness, though, B couldn't stand the idea of backing down. It was his gaze that was more powerful. For all the intensity and strangeness of L's hematite irises, B's garnets were even more so. He would win.

Not shifting in his posture or altering his tone, and not letting up his stare one bit, L spoke again. "Why, then, do you want so much to become a good replacement for me?"

B's breathing hitched a little, stopping the first automatic reply. Any had given the advice to tell the truth, and under that weighted stare, the idea of lying… he'd be caught in an instant. "To… have a home here," he replied honestly, feeling awkward as he said it.

If anything, the gaze leveled at him only sharpened. "Not from a desire to bring criminals to justice or a sense of right?"

B paused, caught. Lie or truth, lie or truth…? Both had pitfalls, but which one would have a softer landing? "… No."

B couldn't tell if L's expression meant he'd said the right thing, if his response earned him points for sincerity or lost them for motivation.

"Well, perhaps that will come with time."

Surprise, combined with the mounting need to wet his drying eyes finally forced B to blink. L looked down at the coffee table, apparently debating over which sweet to eat. Which of them had looked away first in their little game? B thought he had lost, but had they each actually looked away at the same time? Or had L looked away first?

"Saving your name," L said, attention taken up with fetching up sugar cubes from a bowl and plopping them into a coffee cup by the handful, "and your grades, I know next to nothing about you. For this first visit I wanted as little to affect first impressions as possible." L paused, stirring the sugar laden coffee with a spoon. The way he held the spoon in his thin fingers was strange, just with the tips of forefinger and thumb.

The young detective looked back up at B suddenly, making the boy start slightly. "Tell me, what are your first impressions of the orphanage?"

"It's… nice," B said, again feeling awkward just expressing what he thought plainly. "It's better than any other I've ever been in."

"Mm." The cup was brought up to L's mouth with that same odd grip, this time performed by both hands. The detective slurped on his drink noisily, making B wince. Didn't the world's greatest know how to drink quietly? L's eyes were less round, the heavy lids having lowered some, as he set the cup back in its place. Partly closed, they weren't quite as disturbing, but did he _ever_ blink?

"What are your impressions of me, now that you have met me?"

That made B stop completely for a moment, wondering. Were all of these questions some kind of test? Was L divining something about him personally from his answers? He was a detective, and connecting the dots was his specialty…

"I think you look too young to be a real detective," he said, deciding to continue with the theme of truth. His judgment didn't seem to faze the older boy at all, so he continued. "You look too young and you act too young. You're rude, calling me to see you and then hiding, not even introducing yourself, and then being so noisy with the way you drink. You're sloppy in the way you dress, and childish in the way you sit. And you look creepy, as well."

L paused, frozen by B's frank assessment of him, spidery hand poised over a pile of miniature powdered doughnuts.

Then, "All that, eh?" A doughnut was plucked up and transported to a waiting mouth. Still staring at B unblinkingly, he spoke around the mouthful with no attempt to cover the inside from view. "Interesting."

He continued to eat his confectionary noisily, and B had no doubt that he was doing it deliberately. Another piece of his apprehension melted away as the 'detective' acted so immaturely. "Why not pick out what you want before bringing it all in here?" B asked, indicating the table scattered with sweets.

L looked it over, as though confused, then looked back up at him, face as serious as it could be with a smear of powdered sugar across one cheek. "This _is_ what I want. I will eat everything here."

B suddenly felt a little sick. He liked sweets, but _all_ of it? His blood buzzed in a sugar high just thinking about it.

"There was one extra note in your file that I _did_ look over before you were called in," L said. B felt his stomach cramp anew. "Normally I wouldn't like to know anything other than names and marks, but I was outvoted on this point concerning you." Heavy hematite eyes pinned him again through the flimsy darkened plastic lenses of his glasses. "You know what this detail is, don't you?"

B nodded. Of course, there would be no way to avoid this part of the interview. Logically, L would want to see B's unique feature, even if his calling didn't already predispose him to being inquisitive. B knew it, understood it, expected it… but he still didn't like it. "My eyes."

"Indeed," L nodded. "I would appreciate it if you would remove your sunglasses and allow me to see them."

For a moment B didn't move, just stared at the boy who was meant to be his ambition. There were so many ways everything could go wrong, and he would be back to swapping out for new homes every few months. In most cases, it was the discovery of his eyes, and the fear they always seemed to generate that sent him searching again. Now he also had to worry about how well he accomplished the goal of the orphanage, becoming a suitable heir to L. Some of that particular decision, if not all of it, rested with the man himself. Now here was the man, who was really only a boy, asking to see his eyes. The odds of everything falling apart were so high it set B's head spinning.

Slowly the glasses were removed, and black irises met red with no barriers between them.

The younger boy watched for a reaction, any kind of reaction from L. There was none. No flicker in his expression, no change in his breathing, no shift of his weight. B couldn't even say that the detective had frozen at the sight of them, because he hadn't been moving to begin with.

When the detective finally did move, it was to lean forward over his knees and the coffee table, to reach for and pluck B's glasses out of his hands. Holding them aloft by way of pinching one of the temples between his fingers, he studied the lenses as though he'd never seen anything like them before. "Why do you hide them?"

B started at the question, and answered without thinking. "Because the others would tease me."

"Do you care what they think?"

"No."

"Just what they do."

B didn't reply to that, feeling like he'd been caught in a word-trap. Instead, he waited for L to speak again.

After a minute or more of silence, L put the glasses down on the table, out of easy reaching distance for B. "My most pressing concern for your eyes at the moment," he said, "is what their color might mean for your vision. W," he called over his shoulder, "could you bring the cards, please?"

The well groomed elder man walked around and stood to the side of L's chair, holding a deck of overlarge cards in one hand. B watched him a little apprehensively, wondering what L had meant by the color of his eyes affecting his vision.

"B," L said, bringing the boy's attention back to him. "W will show you a series of cards, each with a hidden picture in them. I would like you to look at the cards and tell us what shapes you can make out. Understand?"

B nodded and refocused on Mr. Wammy, who held out one of the cards for him to take. It was covered, all the way to the edges, in dots of different sizes. All of them were the same color, but some were much darker, and these grouped together to form lines, which in turn then made shapes. B couldn't see how this would be considered 'hidden', but maybe there was more that he really couldn't see. "I see a square, a circle, and a star."

"Good," L said, and W nodded. The card was taken back and put on a clear space on the coffee table, and B was handed a new card with more dots.

The stack of cards that B had to work through was thick, and it was a very repetitive game he was playing, hunting through dots to find a pattern. After the first couple it became more challenging, as the shades between the dots became less extreme. On some cards he couldn't find any hidden images, and those were set into a separate pile than the others. Even some cards where he had seen a shape were put in that stack, though, so B wasn't sure if that was an automatic 'fail' pile or not.

When he had worked his way all the way through to the end, L picked up the stack where all of his 'blank' cards had been put and looked through them. "Upon entering the Wammy House," L said, peering at one card closely, "you underwent many tests. Most of these were to test your mental capabilities, but some were there to check your physical well-being. One of those happened to be a brief vision test, correct?"

The boy nodded again, remembering the first bevy of exams he'd gone through without much fondness.

"That vision test had nothing out of the ordinary to report," L continued. "Visual acuity is perfect as far as sharpness and peripheral goes. However, this test," he flipped the cards back onto the table, "leads me to believe that you have a form of colorblindness."

Red eyes blinked. "Colorblind?"

The detective nodded. "From these results it would appear you have what is called a yellow-green deficiency, which is rare, but shouldn't be difficult to work around. Normally it is a hereditary trait, passed on to you by your parents. My concern," he said, shifting his weight in his seat, toes rubbing against each other absently, "is that it is not a true case of tritanomoly or tritanopia, but is merely mimicking the symptoms. Your eye color makes me wonder if this isn't something more serious than a slightly mutated pigment."

B shifted uncomfortably as well. Some of the words L was using were going over his head, but the meaning of it all was clear enough. He was curious - suspicious, really - of his eyes, and smart enough that that curiosity might lead him uncomfortably close to some awkward revelations.

Ignoring the boy's nervous fidget, L twisted around as he had before to look behind himself. "Roger, could you arrange for a full check-up on B's eyes? I would like to know for sure if this condition is potentially degenerative."

From his place behind the desk, the old curator spoke for the first time since telling B to come in. "Of course, it can be done immediately."

"No!"

Three sets of eyes snapped over to B, who was keeping a tight rein on himself so he wouldn't shake or run from the room. Realizing how loudly he had yelled, he took a breath before continuing, more subdued. "No, I- I don't want to take any more eye exams. I don't want… I don't want to."

L's gaze remained hooded, but they penetrated B with the force of the stare he leveled at him. "It's not a question of what you _want_, B," he said, his voice flat and final. "It's a question of what is best for you and the success of this program. If your vision is in danger it could seriously compromise our goal. You will have this examination."

B felt his legs begin to tremble. He couldn't let anyone examine his eyes that closely, because who knew what they would find? What if there was some kind of clue to tell them what it was he saw? Where would he be then? No, he couldn't let them examine his eyes; it was far too much of a risk. But to refuse it he was going against L, defying him on their first and possibly only meeting. Besides what role and sway he held over B's life, the man was just daunting to stand in front of, staring you down.

The younger boy forced himself to meet L's intimidating glare, reminding himself as he did that L was still human, and still had human frailties, despite outward appearances.

L would still die, just like everyone else.

"I won't go," he said, the tremble in his voice almost hidden. "You can't force me to take it. I'll fight every step."

The room was silent for what seemed like entire minutes as the two boys stared each other down, and the two men waited to see what kind of conclusion would be drawn between them.

Finally, L nodded. "Very well," he murmured, causing Mr. Wammy to glance over sharply and Roger to grunt in surprise. "We will forgo the full exam for now. However," he snapped at B's little smile, "I will have special sets of cards made to test for any deterioration or progression in your condition. You will be tested with these regularly and often. If we receive any sign that they are worsening, then there _will_ be a full exam. Is that understood?"

B nodded, satisfied. He doubted that whatever it was that made him colorblind would progress, but even if it did, the deal worked well enough for now. It gave him time to think and plan if the prospect of an examination ever became a reality.

L picked up B's sunglasses again, looking at them a little distastefully. "I'm still not satisfied with these. You use them to hide your abnormality, but they will only work to draw more attention to yourself. People will want to know what it is you're hiding." He paused, hematite orbs staring off into space as he considered the problem.

He broke off his considerations abruptly. "Tell me, B, how you would feel about colored contact lenses to conceal them? They will look absolutely natural and completely cover the red, leaving you with no worries of discovery, so long as you wear them."

It didn't take as much consideration as L had taken to even make the offer. "I would like that very much."

"It will require a fitting session for the contacts," the elder boy said blandly. "Not nearly so in depth as the exam we were discussing, but performed in the same room, and by the same doctor."

B hesitated at that for an instant, considering what it could mean. But a fitting wasn't the same as an exam, even if it was done by the same person. Surely he wouldn't be able to spot anything beyond what every other person who saw his eyes did. "That's fine. I still want them."

"Very well," he said, and flicked his wrist, tossing B his glasses without warning and making the boy fumble to catch them. "It can be organized very soon. In the meantime, I would suggest that you continue wearing those." He tilted his head at B, who tried not to wince at the extreme angle his neck reached. "I think you will do very well here, B, given time. It was good to meet you. Please fetch C for us before you return to your activities."

With that, it seemed, B was dismissed. L turned his full attention back to his table of confectionary, ignoring the boy completely. B left the room feeling a little dizzy, and glad he had finished his projects for the day. He needed some time to think over what had just gone on in that room.

-------

"Alright, Quillish, I've seen him, met him, spoken with him, and I have some ideas as to his character." L looked up at the graying man who was both guardian and assistant to the adolescent genius. "Now tell me what I don't already know about him."

Quillish Wammy cleared his throat, straightening a small sheaf of papers that contained a portion of the information they had on B. "Well, as you saw, he is a very shy and withdrawn lad. He's had some difficulty fitting in with the daily routine, but no more than any other orphan might experience, and usually only when an activity has to do with social interaction."

"Understandable, I sympathize," the detective muttered into his cup.

"Quite," Quillish said noncommittally. "Everything else is probably about what you would expect. Excellent grades and study habits, a high affinity for numbers, and apparently he enjoys logic exercises and word problems. Very clean and tidy, he never needs to be reminded to clean his rooms-"

"Almost obsessively clean, in fact," Roger interjected into Quillish's reading. "The housekeeper only goes into his rooms once a week to restock the washroom supplies. Everything else he does himself."

"Are there any indicators as to why he developed this habit?" L asked without turning.

"None that we've come across so far," Roger denied.

"Continue, then."

Quillish shuffled through the pages until he was near the end. "The only notes that appear to be cause for concern are his antisocialism and his nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

Again, it was Roger who provided more detail rather than Quillish, who was limited to hearsay and reports, whereas Roger was always present at the orphanage. "Yes. His sessions with our psychiatrist have revealed that he suffers from severe nightmares. Night terrors, sometimes."

L stood, holding an overlarge, spiraling rainbow lollipop in one hand. Shoulders hunched, head forward, and knees slightly bent, he walked around to the other side of the armchair, where he could look Roger Ruvie in the eye. "What triggers them?"

The man shrugged, unfazed by L's unblinking stare. He'd been on the receiving end of it too many times to be much affected anymore. "We don't know, he hasn't been very forthcoming about that."

The detective nibbled on a green stripe in his candy. "What are they about, then?"

Roger sighed. "About burning to death in a fire. Apparently there was some kind of accident at one of his previous schools, where a fire started in the lower part of the building. B was trapped inside and lost consciousness from smoke inhalation. He was very lucky to have been found, or he might very well have died. Since then he has developed the nightmares and a borderline paranoia of fire."

The lollipop tapped against L's lower lip thoughtfully. "It's interesting," he said. "And possibly suggestive. Roger, have there been any other quirks about B that you or any others have noticed that have not made it into this report?"

The older man thought about it a moment, trying to remember any additional oddities that hadn't already been mentioned. "Yes," he said finally, frowning a little. "He normally has an excellent memory, practically photographic, in fact, but there is one thing he constantly forgets. People's names. He can't seem to remember them, so he only calls the other children by their letters. Except for Any," he added. "His name he remembers."

"That is a little odd," L agreed, "but nothing to cause concern, I think."

"Yes," Roger agreed. Then he smiled, and chuckled a little. "It gave one of the children quite a turn," he said. "He'd forgotten M's taken name - Mythra - and was trying to guess what it was, I suppose, and actually called her by her real name instead. Mary-Ann isn't such an uncommon name that he wouldn't stumble over it eventually, but it startled the poor girl."

"I'm sure it did," Quillish said, also chuckling.

L continued to nibble at his candy, contemplative. "What do the other children think of him? How do they behave around him?"

"Well, they're all a little frightened of him, I think," Roger admitted.

"Because of his eyes?"

Roger shook his head. "No. Save for Any, no orphan is aware of them. It's because B is so quiet, we believe. He never interacts, but he's always present and watching. It unnerves them."

Quillish put down the papers on Roger's desk. "It's understandable," he said quietly. "And probably best none of them _have_ seen his eyes, or it would be even worse than it is. I must admit that even _I_ was a little unsettled. I can only imagine what another child would think."

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Roger nodded his concurrence. It was rare when B left off the shades that concealed his eyes, but he'd done it once or twice in Roger's presence, and it always made him uneasy. A pair of blood red eyes that would stare at you almost as unblinkingly as… well, as L's, was more than he could tolerate for more than a few minutes. He was glad the sunglasses were in place almost permanently, and that B liked to stare at the floor most times in any case.

When L spoke again, it was quiet as always, but with an undercurrent of annoyance, which made his words snap out into the room. "I think that you'll find that this boy is more deserving of pity and sympathy rather than fear." The rainbow lollipop hovered around L's mouth, partially concealing his frown. "It's obvious that he's afraid of what others will think of his affliction, or rather, what they will _do_ if they knew about it. Even without looking over his personal history, I can tell you that he has been mistreated in the past, most probably because of his eyes. His behavior and what he had to say confirmed that rather well. More than that, though," L stared down at his candy, thoughtful. "I think that, for whatever reason, he is afraid of his own eyes more than any outside observer could be, as well as being afraid to let anyone see."

L shook himself out of his reverie, swinging the lollipop loosely between his fingers. "A detective need not concern himself with how he appears; I've proven that much myself. Nor has he any use for irrational fear. Right now B is living off of fear. We need to change that, teach him better methods of self-management, or he will never become what we want him to be."

-------

_**A/N2:**__ Hee! Okay, that was fun to write. I loved doing the L and B interaction, especially knowing all the little psychological pieces that may or may not have shown through. ^^ Very fun. Although it was a little strange to refer to Watari as Quillish or Mr. Wammy all the time, and not 'Watari'._

_Right, so some of you might be wondering where in the official __Death Note__ timeline we are. Well, without putting actual dates on each day, (because that's too much work, and I'm lazy), we're hovering about 1994 or so. That would make L aged 15, 5 years older than B. For the super math geeks out there, that means we've got about 5 years between now and when B runs away. For the ultra __Death Note__ nerds out there, you'll notice this is a slight problem, as the younger Wammy boys won't be making an appearance here, and with this timeline, they should be. But they won't. I've tried over and over to fix this little timeline fluff, but just can't in any way that I like. My advice: do what I'm doing and ignore it, it's not super important. (I made a chart and everything, and __still__ couldn't fix it. T^T) _

_All the little points about colorblindness that were mentioned were as accurate as I could make them, from the little test with the cards to the technical names for the yellow-green deficiency. It's just a little point I wanted to add, making B's vision a bit off, since whenever __we__ see someone's view when using the Shinigami eyes, it's always red tinted. This makes an effect very close to tritanomoly/tritanopia, so in goes a nerdy little detail. _

_One last point that someone noticed early on, is that the life spans that B is seeing on some people can't be right. A, as we know, dies young, and L certainly dies before age 53. What's going on? Well, according to the rules of the death note, you're ending a person's life before their scheduled time, and if you happen to be a Shinigami, you take the remaining years for yourself. In other words, a 'death note related' death wouldn't have any bearing on a person's visible lifespan. That explains one, what about the other? Wait and see. ;3_

_Chapter four is in the works, and will hopefully be up by the end of this month. Yes, I am back, but I've still got a __lot__ of other projects on my plate, and Christmas coming up as well. I'm churning away, but it may take a little while. Chapter four is also likely to be short in comparison, and a bit of a time jump, so be ready, readers. ;D_

_**Again, thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, faving, and alerting. It means a lot to me!**_


	4. Purpose

_**A/N:**__ My sincerest apologies for how long this chapter has taken to appear. I wanted it to be done and posted by the end of December, and it's now almost February. -.-; On top of that, it's a shorty. Gah! The good news is that chapter five is already written, and is now on to the transcribing/editing stage, and is much longer. With luck it will be up in a couple weeks. :3_

_For those of you hunting out the hidden numbers and letters, there are one to be found in this chapter. We have a bit of a puzzle break for now._

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3._

_**Music:**__ None for this one. :)_

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'. Also true name reveals from this point forward are a possibility._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

-------

What's My Name?

Part Four, "Purpose"

Raven Ehtar

-------

"_There is purpose and worth to each and every life."  
~Ronald Reagan~_

-------

They say time passes quickly when you're having fun. That when you are enjoying yourself the days go by in a blur and you're left wondering where the precious minutes have slipped away to.

That was probably why B felt so old.

If happy moments passed quickly, then sad ones would drag by slowly, limping their way into eternity after their more joyful counterparts. Very little of B's life could be said to have been happy, so his few years had stretched and dilated until they felt twice their original length. He was ten on his arrival at the Wammy House, and he felt twenty.

So it came as a shock when he realized that he had spent another four months at the orphanage, bringing his total time to eight. Hard to believe as it was, he had drifted quietly through his birthday, Halloween, Christmas, New Years… He had lived in the same home for more than half a year with no sign of being moved on to a new one. It took him a full day to comprehend this and its implications, but when it finally sunk in, he was no less stunned.

He wasn't prepared to say he was actually _happy_ his entire time at the orphanage, but he would admit to feeling less pessimistic, and there were some days that passed almost altogether enjoyably. His classes were still stimulating and challenging, and as he began to relax more into the routine, he found he enjoyed his periods of rest as well, with less brooding.

However, down time was rare because of how incredibly _busy_ the institution kept everyone, and the top students especially. If anything, B would have said it was the amount of work they were being required to finish that made the days stream by in a haze. Fine, he was a little happier, but having your day crammed from one end to the other was what really shortened it. There was so much to fit into a few short hours that B sometimes wondered if he had accidentally stayed awake for two entire days without realizing it, believing it to be only one.

For all the effort he put in, though, he felt he still had a tiny reserve; a little more he could give if he ever needed it. Which may have been why he also experienced something new and unexpected regarding his fellow orphans.

Disdain.

B was ranked number two, directly after Any, who was the most likely candidate to succeed L. From what he heard said about the rest of the children taken in, they should have been giving him some challenge in his ranking, a reason to strive harder and use up the reserve he had. They were all very bright, some even brilliant… but they were all still after B. _They_ strove, he could see it and hear it in the way they studied and spoke, but none of them ever did more than approach him in rank. When B considered his small reserve and what he might accomplish if he used it, it made him sneer a little at those trailing after him. He didn't even care if he became the 'heir', his goal was to secure his place without doubt, and he was still so far ahead of them. To think that he had ever been frightened of them was almost enough to make him laugh aloud.

… But that was all bravado, not fearlessness. He was still nervous around others, and avoided interaction whenever he could. Much of his actual fear, though, had abated with the introduction of the darkly tinted contact lenses L had given him.

It was amazing the difference they made. He had been reluctant to get the fitting for them, despite the assurances of both L and the doctor that his eyes wouldn't be examined during his sitting. Whatever they said, it was still a trained man looking closely at his eyes. Whether he was actively searching or not, he might spot something worth noting.

If he had seen anything, though, he didn't say so, and within days he had a pair of dark brown contacts, nearly black. They had to be so dark, he was told, because red proved to be a hard color to conceal. Anything lighter would have the redness showing through. As it was, the natural tinting of his pupils was still visible, because to attempt covering that would mean hampering his vision. Since he was already somewhat handicapped there with his colorblindness, no one was willing to add another complication. Besides which, the red stain was so faint that no one would see it unless they were right in his face.

It was incredible, the feeling of freedom they imparted on the young boy. For the first time in his life he could walk with his eyes uncovered and unafraid that someone would notice, that someone would point them out and invite a flood of attention and questions. Of course, the first few times he'd dared to wear them and walk without his shades had made him tremble. He'd still avoided meeting anyone's gaze, expecting a contact to slip without feeling it, or for someone to somehow spot the tiny reddish tint of his pupils. But it hadn't happened. B went unnoticed for the most part, and unnoted for any oddity in his person. It was almost as if he were… normal.

Examining himself in the mirror was also an experience. Rather than a thin, pale child glowering at him with a pair of red garnets more suited to a demon, B saw a dark brown eyed boy with a thatch of messy brunette locks, gaping wonderingly at him from the other side of the glass. The new boy reflected in the silvering was almost unrecognizable. Until B caught sight of the red, swimming letters above his head.

The contacts hid what others saw, but not what _he_ saw. The labels were still there, a mocking reminder of what he was, and they wouldn't be snuffed out with two mere slivers of soft plastic. He had freedom now to walk among his fellow orphans, but he wasn't free from the deaths that followed them. He wasn't free from the knowledge that he was different.

They were normal. He could only feign normality.

He was ranked second, he still had his reserve, and for short periods of time he could even ignore the labels, and pretend he couldn't see the death of everyone around him. He could act like he was as ordinary as any of his peers, and that his superior position in the Wammy House's bizarre competition was untainted by any bitterness. But if he was superior, then he was also alien. His peers weren't truly peers, because they couldn't share his experiences.

So, he had more freedom, and less to fear from the other children in the program, but none of whom he would call a friend. His disguise didn't quite afford him that privilege.

The only one he could even say acted friendly toward him was Any. The older boy still hung out with him, and seemed to relax in his company more since his eyes were re-colored by their contacts, and appeared normal. That slightly irked B, that Any became friendlier after his eyes were disguised, but at the same time it was understandable. B gave the boy gave credit that he'd stayed at all.

As the weeks rolled on and the intensity of their courses increased, slowly testing their limits and their dedication, B saw a change in Any. Or maybe it was something that had always been there, and he'd just never noticed it: Any was very focused when it came to his studies. He wouldn't have thought it of the hyper, chatterbox of a boy; that he would be capable of sitting at a single task for any amount of time, but his placement proved it. Where B didn't particularly care where he was in the ranks, so long as it was high, Any did. His love and obsession for L was genuine, and he was determined to become the worthy successor. Until his studies were done for the day, he couldn't be budged for anything else.

He was still far from the mania driven personality of some of the lower placed children, though, who pushed themselves ruthlessly in their studies and progressed precisely nowhere. Any worked hard, got his good marks, and then allowed himself time to play and use up the energy he always seemed to have in abundance.

Any's idea of 'play' consisted of anything he could find that he found diverting and that held his attention, if only for a few hours. From sports to videogames, board games, rambles, pranks, and reading, nothing seemed to be out of his scope or taste. He attacked each activity with equal enthusiasm. And with each, he also had B try, with just as much passion. It might have been annoying to be constantly dragged from one thing to the next, and almost never the same diversion twice in a row, but B found himself enjoying it more than being irritated by it. Any's energy was infectious, and if his passion for each of his pastimes was short lived, it was also cyclical. B found himself willingly following the older boy into his play, even looking forward to when Any next found him to take him off on a romp.

More than just the play itself, he was coming to like Any more as well. His new focus had a steadying effect on his personality. He was still energetic, but bearably so. Now, rather than threatening to take B's arm off with his enthusiasm, Any's natural sense of humor was beginning to show through, and some of his more habitual hobbies.

It was odd, for example, to see him without a pair of headphones either in place over his ears or hanging around his neck. They, and the CD walkman they had come with, had been a gift of his on Christmas and they were practically attached to the boy for all the time they spent on him. They had been from L, a favor he had bestowed on every child in the program. Since then, Any had developed a keen appetite for music. His tastes, so far as B could tell, were about as wide and ranging as his pastimes.

Another of Any's habits that he noticed was that he was a borderline obsessive comic book reader. B hadn't seen it at first because Any was careful with his collection and never took any of them out of his room. But a single visit to that corner of the Wammy House had revealed the extent of Any's little addiction. Box upon white box were stacked and scattered around the room, each one filled with comics, organized carefully and protected in individual plastic sleeves, backed with stiff card to keep them from bending. From well known titles like _Spiderman_ and _X-Men_ to obscure works such as _Chiaroscuro_ and Peter Kuper's _The System_, all were treated with equal care. Any had been almost too embarrassed to let his collection be seen, but once that was gotten over he quickly set about the task of introducing B to the best of his collection. Again, the boy's selection proved to be as broad as an average comic shop.

It was hard not to like Any and his quirks, hard not to become infected with his energy and his drive, to be swept off along with it, and B eventually stopped trying. He just wondered why it was that he was still the only one who seemed to be Any's friend, and who Any put an effort into befriending.

Eight months stretched into nine, then ten, eleven, and an entire year had gone by without much to make B notice its passing. Any and B stayed solidly at the lead of the pack, while those behind them jumped and roiled about in their positions. The work was challenging, and the challenge increased until B found that there was little left of the reserve he'd once had. But except for the stimulation of the work itself, there wasn't much that drove him as his fellow orphans and students were driven. He had no particular desire to go in for a detective's line of work, nor any of those suggested by his teachers and guardians - which were all similar to the first when they were broken down. In fact, B didn't have any idea what it was he might like to be when he was finally grown. So long as he had a roof over his head, he was satisfied. Thinking much beyond that was a waste of time.

The one year mark of continuous residence might have passed by entirely unnoticed, wrapped up as B was in the daily trails of the program, except that it was also the one year anniversary - or very close to it - for the initiation of the Wammy House itself. When that date came around, L began to take a more personal role in the lives of his heirs-in-training.

It was far from the kind of day-to-day attention that was given by the instructors of the Wammy House. He only spent sporadic periods of time at the orphanage, the few peaceful stretches he had between his most difficult cases. He checked in briefly with every one of his protégés before his focus settled on his most promising.

His top three, in fact.

They weren't proper lessons, and they weren't the same kind of interview that had taken place in Roger's office a year before. The times L spent with his top three were very nearly relaxing, as he seemed to prefer to spend them conversing, going over their daily routines or telling tales of his own cases. Occasionally the odd man with the bent back, who was very nearly a child himself, took it into his head to play some simple game or other with them.

It was during one of these times, nearly a year and a half after B had first arrived, when he finally received a hint as to a direction for his future.

-------

_**A/N2:**__ Sigh. So short, and filler as well. There will be dialogue in the next chapter, I promise. _

_**Love and cookies to everyone following my interpretation of B's early days!**_


	5. Game

_**A/N:**__ I really need to stop saying that the next part won't take long to come up, I keep jinxing myself that way. -.- A few technical difficulties delayed this one, along the lines of a hard drive crash and operating system corruption. (sigh) After some time at the computer ER, things are back to normal, or close enough._

_Now, being the fifth part, we come to THE chapter. It's not the most exciting chapter, but it's the one that inspired this whole nonsense. What transpires here is the first scene that spawned in my twisted little mind and eventually spun itself off into the multi-chapter fic you see. To mark the occasion, it's Special Thanks Time! XD_

_**Special Thanks!:**__ First and foremost - my Betas. You all may have noticed, I now have 2 for this puppy, Voice of the Shadow Realm and SkyTurtle3. These two ladies put up with a lot when they give my chapters the first and second run-throughs. Kudos for their patience, loves to you both. :3 _

_My reviewers, most especially my repeat review givers. RainingArrows, Another Winter, Voice of the Shadow Realm, Breena Beeks Marie, Ninna-chan, ChocoAndCigs, and ScarlettsFuneral, you guys are all awesome marathon reviewers, HUGS! AishiExcel, Black Alice Butterfly, Mellow Mihael, Shebali, and chou-fleur, I hope you all are still enjoying the ride! ^^_

_To all of the folks who have alerted or faved this fic, (I'll keep you all anonymous, just in case ;D), special thanks to you, too! I love getting the alerts in my inbox telling me someone enjoyed my imaginings enough to want to read more. It gives me the oomph to go back to the pen and paper to write again. Love to you all!_

_Right, with that out of the way, there's only one thing left to say. Instead of a hidden number game for this chapter, we have something a little more word-orientated. Instead of a hidden '13' or '1313', there's a sneaky reference to… __**my**__ name, 'Raven'. (No, descriptions of hair or eyes that might be termed 'raven black' don't count.) No math involved at all on this one, guys, no calculators required. :D _

_Enjoy, everyone!_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3._

_**Music: **_It's the Fear_ by Within Temptation._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'. Also true name reveals from this point forward are a possibility._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Five, "Game"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_You have to learn the rules of the game. And then you have to play better than anyone else."  
~Albert Einstein~_

_...  
_

"Larceny."

"Appropriation."

"Burglary."

"Crime."

"Laws."

"Acts."

"Bills."

"Codes."

"Legislation."

"Agency."

"Bureau."

"Um… Committee."

"League."

"Assembly."

"Band."

"Club."

"Lash."

"… That's not another word for 'club'."

L rocked back on his heels, heavily lidded eyes staring at his most likely heir blankly. There weren't many people in the world who came under that stony gaze, as the man's personal and professional habits had him avoiding contact of any sort with other human beings. Of those who did find themselves pinned under its weight, they would shift uncomfortably and find some excuse to look away. It was disconcerting to have someone who never blinked staring at you, absorbing your motives and drives through your behavior.

But Any wasn't one of the typical people who came under the scrutiny of the hematite orbs. He, and the other two children in the room, had been under their influence many times over the last five months. If they weren't entirely used to it yet, then they could at least hold and return it without being reduced to stammers.

A hand, pale and deceptively thin, came up, thumb resting against the pouting curve of L's lower lip in a childish expression. The black eyes did not waver away or blink. "Yes, it is." The words came out slightly slurred as they were spoken around the digit.

B smirked, watching the two of them start another one of their mini stare-downs. This had been happening more and more frequently of late, where Any would attempt to find some flaw in L's logic or reasoning and correct it himself. He had yet to find one, but he was determined. His continual failures only seemed to be making him more stubborn when he chanced on some possible mistake.

"No, it's not."

Like now.

It had only taken until the third time such an incident had popped up for B to figure out what it was. At first he had thought that Any had lost some of his blind admiration for L, and it was petulant anger that had him arguing with the man. Or perhaps his confidence and ego had swollen to the point where he felt he could outdo his mentor, if only in trifling details. Neither of those theories had stood up to the test of time and supporting evidence, though, and B soon came to the conclusion that it was because Any's admiration was _increasing_ with time, not failing or becoming secondary to self-admiration. He was doing it to be noticed, to call more of L's coveted attention to himself.

Watching the tiny, almost invisible twitch of L's lips, mostly concealed behind the blind of his thumb, and the renewed sparkle in the dark as night eyes, B was sure that L also saw it for what it was.

C, who called herself Cecilia but whose label revealed her to be Carma Chadwick, also watched the two faceoff, her expression a hesitant mixture of worry and interest. She was young, about seven or so, but extremely bright and well-deserving of her third place ranking. The first few times Any and L had gotten into one of these arguments she had practically shrunk into a corner of the room with her anxiety. Seeing someone stand up to a man like L was enough to make B take a step back, Cecilia was even less equipped to handle it.

Now, though, while the concern was still there, she watched the exchanges carefully, apparently understanding that there were several levels hidden from view and trying to discern their meaning. For someone so young to reach those conclusions unaided, it spoke loudly of her potential, of the levels she could reach as an adult.

If she had been destined to reach adulthood.

L tugged on his lip, considering his rebellious protégé. "Explain the meaning of the word 'lash', please," L's monotone way of speaking made it hard to tell if he was amused or if he was annoyed.

Any, it seemed, didn't care. He drew himself up to his full height, which wasn't much. "A lash is a whip. Or more specifically, the flexible, functional section of a whip."

Without changing his position, L murmured, "Good. Now 'club'."

"A gathering of people with a common interest, hobby, or goal, usually structured with sets of rules or guidelines and offering exclusive membership."

The head full of soft, messy black locks tilted to a strange angle, and B had to resist the temptation to mimic the move and release some of his joints with snaps. He held his head still, and listened.

"Ah. And another definition for 'club' could be 'an instrument for beating'," his eyes slipped over to Cecilia. "True?"

The girl started slightly at the sudden direct attention, but nodded quickly, loose locks of strawberry blonde hair swaying around her face.

L glanced back to Any, whose face looked warmer than it had a moment ago. It was an exceedingly simple mistake, B didn't blame him for feeling embarrassed over it. But L wasn't finished yet. "Both words, 'club' and 'lash', could also be used as verbs, referring to violent acts being played out."

B winced. Not only a simple mistake, but doubly simple because of the double meaning to the words that coincided with each other. L wasn't a cruel man when it came to these 'lessons' disguised as games, but any mistakes were corrected, and corrected thoroughly. Considering the simplicity of Any's blunder, and that he had challenged L with it, B thought he was getting off fairly lightly.

Any didn't agree. His cheeks and ears flaming even hotter, his smattering of freckles becoming lost in the angry flush, he protested, "But that's not what the previous words had intended! 'Band' and 'assembly' don't have those meanings. We were building along a pattern."

"Irrelevant," L said flatly, the sparkle of amusement in his eyes dimming and leaving empty wells behind. "One must consider all the possibilities and all the directions a course might take, or we will limit ourselves and overlook something vital. B."

B almost straightened his back, but kept a grip on his self-control. "Yes?"

"Quickly, another word for 'acts' with a separate meaning than your first choice."

"Behave," B replied with only a second to remember what his first choice had been.

It was a fairly straightforward game, and one that B enjoyed quite a bit. It was a version of word association, but with the added rule that each person had to have their word begin with their letter. L's was - obviously - 'L', Any's was 'A', his was 'B', and Cecilia's was 'C'. All very simple, but there was the potential for it to become more complex the longer it went on, especially considering how knotted the English language was. It also made B realize just how few words began with 'B'. Or at least any words with the meanings he always required. Not entirely fair, maybe, but he didn't mind. He managed to hold his own well enough, and it was just a word game.

"Cecilia, you next word in answer to 'behave'?"

"Conduct."

"To which mine would be 'lead'. A small shift in perception leading to very different results." The hand at his mouth lowered to cup around one bony, bent knee. They all sat on the floor in the center of one of the smaller playrooms, but L maintained his odd position no matter where he sat. Without a chair to support his back, he had to lean forward more than usual, but he still crouched like an overgrown cat.

"It is something to remember." He looked around at the three of them in turn, impressing the words into their minds. While his short visits were meant to be a slight reprieve from the everyday studies they were put through, they were exercises as well. None of them were in any doubt that what they learned here, even in play, they were meant to remember and use in their lives outside the Wammy House.

One of L's hands plunged into a pocket and pulled out a handful of individually wrapped candies. "I think that is enough for wordplay," he said, unwrapping one with only two fingers of each hand before popping it into his mouth. "I should like to hear a little of what you are doing to entertain yourselves. Ladies first; Cecilia?" When he said the girl's name, he tossed her one of the remaining sweets.

She caught it with both hands, and flushed slightly. Whether it was the more personal question, the attention or both that made her turn colors, B wasn't sure. She was still young, and for all of her smarts, she was still shy around others. Feeling her cheeks heat up, she ducked her head, letting her hair curtain her from view. "Um… I just… play with my friends. They say I study way too much and want to play all the time, but I finish my work first."

L nodded, sucking on his candy. "Yes, I know you do. Who are your friends these days, Cecilia?"

"Dai and Heather."

L nodded again, and B could see him filing away the information into his mind. B took note of it as well. It was a typical pastime for a seven-year-old girl to play with her friends. That she made sure to mention that she finished her studies said that she wanted L to know she was a hard worker, if her profile didn't say that clearly enough already. She mentioned only two friends, D and H. Both were lower in rank than she was - obviously, because there were only two above her and no one approached them for friendship. One was as close to her mentally as was possible, and the other was five ranks down. Both were female. If C had been a normal girl, B wouldn't have seen anything out of the ordinary in that set-up.

Except that the light, bouncy curls of hair and the sweet smile hid a keen mind behind a façade of childishness. There was the occasional flash in her incredibly light blue eyes that spoke of the workings going on behind them. She had one friend who was nearly as smart and capable as she was so she would have someone she could talk to, while the other was sufficiently behind her to not be a threat. She was seven, but she was shrewd.

B would have been watching her closely, for she could only become a larger threat to his own placement as she aged and gained a firmer grip on her talents. He would have, but there was a very good reason why he didn't have to. He glanced up to the girl's numbers.

She would die within seven months, if not sooner.

A candy arced through the air to the next orphan, who happened to be Any. He snatched it out of the air single-handedly.

His own face had cooled, his freckles once again standing out on his lightly tanned cheeks, and only a shadow of a pout still lurking about his lips. He unwrapped and popped the sweet into his mouth before replying. "This and that," he said. "There's less free time than there used to be, but when I have any, I do whatever sounds good."

B smiled again to himself. It wasn't as obvious as when C had done it, but Any was also pointing out how diligent a student he was.

L indicated Any's appearance. "And you apparently still do enjoy the 'sound' of things," he said, meaning the headphones that were, as ever, hanging around Any's neck. "What do you enjoy listening to?"

"This and that," the boy repeated, not looking away from L's heavy gaze. "I'll listen to anything, so long as I like it."

B looked up at Any's face from the patch of wood flooring where he'd allowed it to rest. The older boy wasn't normally this difficult with L, even after the times when his attempts to correct his mentor had failed. Normally he would sulk a minute or two, but once the subject was changed, he became energetic once again. Not this time. From the set of his jaw and the determined green stare he was giving L, he was still deliberately challenging the man.

If L noted the change, he did so privately, and broke the stare-down Any was trying to restart.

B caught the confectionary tossed to him almost without looking. He felt the dark eyes settle on him, but didn't return it. Instead he let his own linger and drift somewhere off into the middle distance. Even with his eyes covered and their color hidden, it was his habit to not look at who he was speaking to. No one had commented on it or tried corrected it, so he saw no reason to do so himself.

"And you, B?" L's voice remained an unreadable monotone. "Am I to assume that your amusements are restricted to what Any enjoys and drags you along to?"

B kept himself from reacting to the bait L offered up. If Any and L played a private game of one-upmanship, B and L played a slightly subtler one of information and response. L was privileged to any and all information on B that the Wammy House sent him, but B was restricted to what he could gather himself about L. Again, he was at something of a disadvantage, but that just made his small victories sweeter. Most of his triumphs were in maintaining a cool exterior, but occasionally he hit L with something unexpected, and that was always worth the effort put in.

He kept his face as blank as possible and his voice neutral when he answered. "No, I have my own interests. Puzzles, logic games, crosswords."

"All which could be considered mental exercises," L pointed out. He rolled the candy in his mouth so it clicked along the back of his teeth.

B shrugged his thin shoulders. It was annoying how in the time he had been at the Wammy House, he'd only grown an inch and a half, and his weight increase had also been negligible. "I like to do them, so I consider it a hobby, not an exercise," he said.

For a moment L was silent except for the clicking along his teeth. Then, "I note that you are sitting as you were at our last gathering. Is that a new hobby as well?"

The boy shifted. Since L's last visit about a month prior B had experimented with the man's posture, to see if his peculiar way of sitting and standing were any easier than the 'normal' way of doing it. It had been tiring at first, but once he was used to it, B found he was much more comfortable curled around his own knees or with his shoulders rolled forward. So while Any and Cecilia were sitting cross-legged on the floor, both L and B were perched like small gargoyles. B felt a little awkward sitting like that in front of L himself, but not doing so would feel like conceding defeat.

Instead of answering, B unwrapped his candy, deciding to do so with the tips of forefingers and thumbs. With his gaze still off to Any's right side, he didn't see L's reaction to the further mimicry, but the one knee of Any's that he could see shifted uncomfortably. The candy, a hard butterscotch, crunched between his teeth loudly on the first bite. B could almost hear Cecilia start at the sound. B ignored them, focusing all of his attention, if not his eyes, on L. As yet, B hadn't heard or felt any reaction from him.

And he refused to react in any way that B could perceive, either by sound, feel, or from the secondary reactions from Any or Cecilia. B chewed the pieces of butterscotch meditatively. The lack of reaction didn't really bother him, nor the silence that stretched and grew until it filled the room to its edges. He was no longer so immature as to require proof that he made L think at every exchange. The fact that B was here, and not outside the doors to this room, wondering what was going on inside it, was evidence enough that he had the man's attention.

No, the one to break the quiet was Cecilia, who sounded more nervous at the silent battle of wills than she had looked when L and Any had had their 'argument'. "L, can you tell us about the case you just finished in Wales?"

The man didn't reply right away, but he didn't make the girl wait long, either. B heard him get up and walk to the table where he had put his computer. "Very well. But I think instead of simply telling, I'll let you and the boys try your hands on some of the key points."

B smiled, feeling he'd won a tiny victory. He looked up slightly as L walked away to gather up his computer and sheaf of files, and caught sight of Any. He was staring at B, but his expression was hard to read. He looked worried, but… not really worried for B. It was gone a moment later, and by then L was again part of the circle, setting up his equipment.

Soon the computer was humming, manila files were open and their contents spread across the floor, the children gathered and hunched over it all, taking in the rows and columns of facts the way some other children would gather around for their favorite afternoon television show. L let them rifle through without comment or hindrance. They were careful and thorough with the papers, making sure to at least glance over each and every one, occasionally pointing out a detail that might otherwise be missed. L watched over it all, expression unreadable, making notes to himself as his top three interacted.

They soon settled down, and were then filled in on whatever background or extraneous facts that had not made it to paper. L's monotone developed a rhythm that would have been well suited to a storyteller had his yarn been fictional. He paused once early on to mouth a fresh candy, and did not stop again until he was about the place that would have been considered the mid-point in a tale. From there on he would prompt the three of them for opinions, thoughts, predictions, their actions had they been in L's place and their rationalizations for them.

In a way, these exercises were a hundred times more frustrating than their everyday studies. This, so far as B knew, wasn't graded nor had any direct bearing on their placement scores, but neither did it have any structure. There weren't technically any right or wrong answers, but L had a way of looking at you with his hematite stare that made you feel as if every decision you made were the wrong one. It didn't seem to matter, even, if what they said was close or far from what L had done. If it was comparable, his face and tone seemed to suggest - without actually saying - that they shouldn't try to mimic him just for the sake of mimicry, but think for themselves. If they deviated from the path L had taken in the case, they had to justify it thoroughly before the man would move on.

B wondered, as he usually did at some point or another whenever they did this, if it was just their patience L was testing.

It was several hours before they finished. Mr. Wammy came in twice during that time, once to bring in a cart heaped high with sweets - this was for L - and again for another cart full of healthier fare to act as lunch for the children. They ate and worked through the case, the younger eaters finishing first, and occasionally managing to con a sweet or two away from the hunched detective.

The sun was making its leisurely way to the horizon by the time they finished to L's satisfaction, the light turning golden and sending long shadows through the windows. The last cookie was plucked up off of the once heavy, now barren sweet cart. It paused on its way to join its brethren as a sudden thought seemed to strike L.

"Any. B."

Both boys looked up at their names, as did Cecilia.

L examined the cookie he held caught between forefinger and thumb for a moment, as though forgetting what he had meant to say. Then, in a faraway voice he said, "It's been on my mind for some time that there should be some long-term challenge set for the two of you to test practical skills you will need in this field. In all likelihood this challenge wouldn't commence for some time, until you'd both had some more time to polish your skills and increase your knowledge bases. However, I would like you both to think it over and tell me what you think would be appropriate."

Any's eyes lit like lamps, and B could see the wheels turning in his head already. He leaned forward, the cord of his headphones swinging. "We get to choose for ourselves?" he asked, half-disbelieving.

L looked over, the captive cookie still held aloft. "I make no promise that what you come up with will be what you are given to do, but it will be considered. I am more interested in what you happen to judge as a fair and worthy test." The cookie was suddenly snapped over and consumed with a muffled crunch.

Cecilia shifted in her place on the floor. "What about me, L? Do I get to try, too?"

"It would be a little unfair," L said around the mouthful of cookie, "to put you to the same challenge as the boys when you are so much younger. I think we will wait a couple more years before that, unless of course you show considerable competence before then. But I see no reason why you can't start thinking about it now," he added, seeing the little pout on the girl's face.

B glanced at the girl's numbers again. Unless that promise showed soon, and an appropriate challenge picked for her very soon after that, she would never get to try her hand at that supposed honor offered to him and Any.

Turning away from C's time to live, he thought about what L had put in front of them. He didn't doubt that there were hidden, or at least double and triple purposes to this. There always were with L. You learned to look for them. No doubt there was a lot riding just on their choice, regardless of whether or not it was what they attempted. It might be the whole point of asking their opinions at all, and their challenges were already picked out and decided on. It was hard to know, and they probably _still_ wouldn't know even when the time came.

Games. It was a constant game they played at the Wammy House, layer upon layer upon layer until the original point was lost in all the twists and machinations. They - all the children - always seemed to be the pawns of the game, shuffled and maneuvered by other hands. It was becoming frustrating, galling. Even pawns dreamt of becoming knights and kings.

B was vaguely aware of L getting up, gathering together his paraphernalia, getting ready to retreat back to the rooms he lived in when visiting the orphanage. An idea was blooming quickly in the red-eyed boy's mind. A crazy idea, barely formed, and most likely a poor choice to share with L, but if he didn't speak up now, he might lose the conviction that came with his brainstorm.

"It's a test for skills we'll need to be your successor?" he asked, eyes locked into a corner, L just visible in his periphery.

L had been saying his goodbyes to the other two, already at the door, one pale hand touching but not yet curled around the knob. B had not spoken loudly, but his abruptness cut through what L had been saying and caught his attention. B saw him look over, head cocked ever so slightly to one side, raggedly cut bangs falling across his face. "Correct."

"Skills such as deduction, and finding what is being deliberately concealed."

L's expression shifted slightly, becoming thoughtful. B saw Any, who had moved close to the door as well, look over at him, one brow raised and giving his freckled face a suspicious look. B ignored it, as well as the confused look Cecilia was sending his way. He focused on L without swiveling around to face him.

His thumb was back in place at his mouth when he replied, having abandoned the doorknob. "Did you already have some idea of what it is you would like to undertake?" Peering at the boy narrowly, his head slightly bowed from his posture, it almost looked as though he were daring B to something.

"I think so." Finally, for the first time that day, he looked L directly in the face, briefly flicking up to his label out of habit, then over to each of the others' over A and C's heads.

_L Lawliet_. 53, 11, 2, 4, 8, 1.

_Anwyl Brice_. 66, 4, 5, 9, 23.

_Carma Chadwick_. 8, 1, 1, 2, 14, 54.

What he always saw, but what no one knew he saw, would not believe he could see even if he told them himself. It was an ability he'd spent his life cursing, reviling and trying his best to ignore, but it was his. It revealed what was hidden and thought to be absolutely safe. Ironic that he should find himself in a place where something so common as a person's name was regarded as a precious secret. Maybe it was time to use his 'talent', instead of shoving it aside. It might be considered cheating, passing off what he saw easily as deductive skill, but like it or not, B's vision was a natural attribute. To not use it simply because it gave him an advantage in one certain area would be like pretending he was not more intelligent than those around him. "I can find out the real names, first and last, of anyone here."

Both Any and Cecilia started at his bold statement, Cecilia looking startled, Any startled and curious. No doubt he would be quizzing B later, when he managed to corner the younger boy. He'd deal with that later.

In contrast to Any and Cecilia, L did not react to B's proposal. There was no further change in his expression, no shift in his posture, not so much as a blink of his stony, owlish eyes. B felt as he had the first time he had met the young detective. How neither of them had been willing to blink or look away from the other, and a heavy tension had built between them. The same was happening again, only now B had a reason to hold his ground beyond youthful stubbornness.

"I'm afraid that that is not possible, B. And not because I believe you incapable," L said, seeing B begin to retort. "It's because I believe the challenge too simple. All one would need to do to learn the names any of you once possessed is hack into the Wammy House mainframe. That is where the records, including past histories so far as they concern your futures, are kept on file. I believe that you have the skill necessary to pull that off. But that is beside the point," he said breathily, as though bored. B scowled. "None of you have names for a good reason. The work you all are being trained for will put you in much the same position as myself, where general knowledge such as that will put you all in danger. Not, it's not a possible, or even a good choice of challenge."

B's scowl deepened almost to a snarl. Bad enough to be refused with legitimate reasoning, but then to disparage the worth of his idea as well… that stung.

B was struggling to keep his spike of anger under control, to bite back the protests and retorts, and allowed his gaze to slip away from L. So focused was he that he didn't notice L was leaving again until he heard the door click open.

"Your name!"

L stopped at the shout, on the threshold and holding the door partway open.

"If knowing everyone else's names is too dangerous," B reasoned quickly, "then I'll just hunt down one. Your name won't be in the mainframe, so I can't find it by hacking. That's only one name that I'll know besides my own, and you're the only person who I would tell when I found it." B took a breath, and waited.

Again, L was silent for some time, one hand on the door, the computer and files tucked safely under his other arm. With his back turned and his face hidden from him, B lost sight of the floating numbers and name. With their reddish light winked out and the man's expression hidden, only the curve of his shoulders and the mass of black locks visible, he was as blank as anyone could be.

L spoke quietly, still facing away, making B strain his ears to catch the words. "The single name you chose to seek out in place of many is possibly the worst trade-off possible in terms of knowledge. Yes, the difficulty is much greater, in fact I would say practically impossible. But to know my name… that's a greater taboo than the knowledge of every other true name to be found in our files."

B bit his lip in frustration, trying to think of a way to convince the elder man to take his challenge. He was spared the trouble.

"But I believe it is worth the risk." The bent man turned back at last, his label flaring back to life. "If you can find my name, then you will have demonstrated your abilities to me very well."

B grinned a little. Now was the question of getting him to agree to the second part of his idea. "Since I'm trying to find your name, I think you should try to find mine."

Any, still standing by the door and watching the byplay between the man and boy, finally spoke up. "There's no point to that, B. All he'd have to do is look in the computer. He doesn't even need to hack his way in like you would."

Cecilia nodded, as did L. "He's right. In fact, I have you name memorized, I would not even need to look it up."

"That would only count if the name in the records was my real name."

A frown creased L's face at last. "We have the name listed in all the official records and documents, including your birth certificate. I assure you, we have your real name."

B smirked, and shook his head. "No, you don't. The name you have isn't the name my parents gave me." It wasn't the name he saw above his own head whenever he looked in the mirror. It didn't count as his _real_ name. "'Bartram' isn't my name."

Cecilia made a small noise, hearing what had supposedly been a secret piece of information. Even Any's eyes widened a little on hearing it, B tossing it out as though it meant nothing. "My parents had some odd ideas," he said. "They were almost as careful with our identities as this place is. Finding my _real_ name might be as hard as finding yours."

L nibbled at the tip of his thumb, considering what B told him. He was interested, B could tell that much at least. He was used to ferreting out the secrets of criminals and to keeping his own, but the idea that one of his own potential heirs would keep one from him had him thinking.

"There's also my taken name," B added. "Only one person knows that, and there's no record of it anywhere. You could try to find both if you think you can." It had taken him close to a year and a half, but B had finally decided on his new name to be called at the orphanage. The only one who knew it was the only one he interacted with: Any. He had planned to tell L what it was as well, but this was much more to his liking.

L flashed a grin around his thumb at the obvious baiting of his second best protégé. It wasn't often that the boy showed so much energy in a project. Despite being second, he always seemed to proceed through the curriculum at something like a stroll. It was interesting to see him become energetic over something that would be considered 'extra credit'. Nor was it lost on the man that it was when B reflected the challenge right back at _him_ that he became passionate.

"Very well, then," he said, face and voice as neutral as ever. "I accept both halves of your proposal. You shall try to determine my true name, and I will do the same with yours. Will you be imposing a time limit for my part in this game?"

B did his best to hide the little flutter of triumph he felt when L accepted. He already knew L's name, and finding B's would be practically impossible, real or taken. It would be an entertaining revelation for the great detective, one B looked forward to. He would prove that he was more than just a pawn. He shrugged in reply to L's question. "No. Whenever you find it, if you ever do, will be fine."

The elder man's lips twitched, but he refrained from smiling again. "Unfortunately, the purpose of your exercise does not allow me to be quite so generous. You have until you leave the confines of Wammy House to discover mine."

B nodded his understanding, then turned back to staring into a corner, more to hide his own grin than to avoid looking at L's floating numbers. He barely listened to Any and Cecilia calling their last goodbyes to the detective as he walked away down the hall, and wondered when would be the best time to reveal that he knew L's lie was really truth.

...

_**A/N2:**__ Now I shouldn't say at all that the next chapter will be up soon, because that will just jinx it all again… but I will say that it will be relatively short, and we're getting to some chapters that I'm excited to write. B will soon be shaken up from his relatively normal life in the orphanage. (evil plotting face)_

_For anyone who's interested, I spent the semi writing vacation doing some photography over on deviantART, including BB cosplay. The new avatar is the result of one of those. Check it out if you're so inclined, the link is on my profile page. ^^_

_**Until next time, my faithful, thank you for reading! **_


	6. Obsession

_**A/N:**__ Okay-dokey, one or two things to mention, then on to the story:_

_One; There is the possibility of a ratings change for the next chapter, (ooo), so if you're finding this fic based on parameters - characters, genre, rating - you might need to change the rating setting to 'M' after this._

_Two; The word and number games are going to stop from this point on, excluding what is there for the purposes of the story. This is because it's becoming too distracting while writing to fit them in, and I've only had a total of two guesses on any of them, (I think). So chippy-choppy for that._

_Three; It's been pointed out that the numbers I gave L for his lifespan differ from those he had in the series. *coughDidn'tnoticecough* I explain this - and any other number anomalies - by pointing back to an early chapter, where it was mentioned that what was seen and how B translates it into a time amount are different. So what we - the audience of the series - see and what B understands differ… and I didn't notice. Meh, I'm only human. :P_

_Four; All of Beyond's contortions and joint snaps are possible! I know, cuz I can do 'em. ;D_

_Five; I'm expected a small amount of outrage by the end of this chapter, so I make my single excuse now: It's time to shake things up. _

_Enjoy and celebrate everyone! We've broken the 30K word barrier in pure story! XD_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3._

_**Music: **_It's Been Awhile _by Staind._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'T' for future chapters depicting disturbing imagery and gore. Possibility of rating jump to 'M'. Also true name reveals from this point forward are a possibility._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Six, "Obsession"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_I voluntarily inflicted a certain level of insanity on myself."  
~Jonathan Franzen~_

_...  
_

Death comes to all things, and to all people. Even before one's own, personal curtain is drawn, they will encounter the final visitor. Be it the death of family, friend or enemy, by slow and quiet steps or with blood caked on their own hands, the Reaper pays a passing call to everyone. The children of the Wammy House were no different in that, and many of them had already experienced Death's cold presence. However young they were, they knew that you didn't get to live forever.

They knew it, some even understood it, but none of them stared it in the eye. None of them expected Death to walk through their lives.

Death affects everything he touches, as well, directly or indirectly. Those left behind are forever touched by a shadow of prescience, by the knowledge that someday they will follow. Whether the cast left over them is revelation or despair depends on the individual, but nearly all share one feature:

They can know it, but they can't hold it.

They can know that Death will one day come for them, their parents, their children, their brothers and sisters, that life will depart and leave nothing but a hollow shell. But they can't be _aware_ of it the same way they are aware of their everyday environment, the feel of the breeze, the taste of the food they eat. To stare down Death every day is to invite madness.

If Beyond skirted madness by watching everyone he met tick their way down to meeting that particular specter, then there was at least one comfort his devilish eyes granted him. He knew when someone was going to die, and so would never have to feel the same kind of shellshock everyone else went through.

When Cecilia was covered with Death's mantle, everyone was affected.

She'd taken sick almost the day after her birthday with a virus that should have been easy to shake. She should have recovered from it within a fortnight, but her condition only worsened as time went on. Eventually no one saw her for all the time she spent in bed, all of her class work was suspended, and the orphanage took on a new, temporary resident in the form of a live-in doctor. It didn't help. Nothing slowed her health's descent, and she passed away in the night, a little more than a month after her eighth birthday.

All around him, the orphans and teachers of the House expressed their grief in different ways. Those closest to her were the loudest. D and H cried a great deal, and Beyond had heard that they sometimes included wails in their nightly lamentations. From her inner circle working out the effect was less obvious, but almost all of the girls were pale, the boys were quiet, and the lessons were hushed. If it wasn't actual grief for Cecilia, then everyone was shaken by the reminder that Death came for all, and was indiscriminate in his harvest.

Beyond's own lack of feeling on the matter, one way or the other, was perceived as withdrawal, and he was left to himself.

Cecilia was the first to be buried in the cemetery meant for all the children of Wammy House, in the specific little plot set aside for "C". To her right, when the time came, Any and Beyond would be buried, and to her left would lay the rest of the alphabet. From now on there would only ever be one child by the name "C", Cecilia. Anyone else who ever achieved the third rank would gain the C title, but not the name.

Which was all old news. Cecilia had been buried for two weeks, dead nearly three, and everyone was still walking around in a fog. Beyond was getting sick of feeling like he was living in a morgue, like he had to be careful of how much noise he made just walking for fear he would break some kind of pact of silence. He was hardly loud by habit, but the way the orphanage was behaving even an over-loud footstep was enough to earn flinches and glares.

And Beyond was sick of it. He understood the need for mourning, but when his questions during class were answered with clipped responses, as though he should be ashamed for causing more trouble for them all when they were already suffering, that tested his patience. He wanted to concentrate on his studies, and the rest of the House could have used the distraction from their self-imposed misery. But no, they were all happy to stay in their little wallows for weeks on end, while he was beginning to twitch with frustration.

The boy snapped the comic book he had been reading closed and nearly tossed it aside in a spike of that frustration. But it wasn't his comic, and Any was finicky about how his collection was treated. So instead of throwing it into a corner of the room, he slipped the thin volume back into its plastic cover and set it aside in the proper stack with its fellows. His arms flopped to the floor and he stared at the ceiling, his unfocused gaze picking out pictures in the random patterns of spackle. He was in Any's room, lying on his back and with both of his legs going up one wall, bare feet kicking lazily. Normally time spent in Any's room would also mean some kind of conversation, or a game, or sharing an activity that didn't require direct interaction - such as reading - but not today. Even his energetic friend was allowing himself to be drawn into the trend of melancholy, and was all but ignoring Beyond.

It wasn't long ago when being ignored wouldn't have fazed the red-eyed boy in the least. In his earliest years he would have given a great deal to be merely ignored and overlooked. Now, though, he was not only used to the company of the elder orphan, he was missing his antics now they weren't a daily occurrence. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but here he was, on Any's floor, his work for the day done, just waiting for the other boy to break the vigil being held over his books.

That seemed to be Any's way of dealing with the situation; by burying himself in schoolwork all the way up to his ears. Beyond wasn't quite sure what it was he was working on, since it couldn't possibly still be the standard projects that had been handed out. If Beyond had been able to finish up already, then Any should have as well. The best he could guess was Any was taking on extra, either to get further ahead of the game or for his own amusement.

Either way, it left Beyond bored stiff.

"I heard them talking the other day about getting a new game system," he said at last, deciding to ignore Any's usual rule to not be bothered while he was working in favor of relieving the monotony.

Any, perched at his desk and writing busily on sheet after endless sheet, only grunted in reply.

Beyond frowned. It wasn't the focus that was unusual; it was the length of time Any was remaining focused that made Beyond wonder. He thought that Any's propensity to attack any and all diversions would have escalated beyond reason, but it had dried up almost completely. The news of a brand new game console should have perked his interest.

"It'll be nice to have more options," Beyond continued blithely. "With how many kids try to play all at the same time now, you're lucky to get more than a few minutes of play out of an entire day."

There was no change in Any's posture, and he didn't reply this time.

Without any hint from Any that he should quiet down, he went on. "Not that there won't be a rush, at least at first. A new machine means new games, and new games will mean a lot of traffic until the novelty wears off. On the other hand, the older consoles will probably be abandoned while everyone breaks in the new one. We would have free reign until the new one is free. Of course, it'll hardly be 'new' anymore, and I'm sure some of the charm will have worn off by then. So there's the dilemma: prioritize privacy or freshness?"

Any, possibly in an attempt to get Beyond to shut up, finally answered without looking away from his papers. "Either option offers its own positive and negative aspects. I suppose the trick would be to determine the exact nature of each and base a decision off of that."

It was hardly the kind of lighthearted banter Beyond was trying to coax the other boy into, but at least he was talking. "Right. On the side of waiting until our fellow orphans have had their fill, we have the positive of having a set of relatively new games more or less to ourselves. After the initial rush, more systems will mean a lower concentration of traffic for each. However, simply waiting will present its own frustrations, and I doubt that we'll get through it without hearing _something_ in the way of spoilers. On the other side of the coin, if we elbow our way into getting first dibs on play time, we'll get the honor of not only being first, but of also showing off our skills to an indubitably large audience waiting their own turns. The upshot being," Beyond stretched, hands creeping along the floor and feet up the wall; one ankle and a vertebrae popped, "we can have privacy for a long wait, or respect at the expense of some relative quiet."

"It's hard to know which is preferable," Any muttered sarcastically. "Respect or quiet?"

"Indeed," Beyond replied, pretending to not understand what was meant. "Normally I would opt for waiting and having the quiet hands down. I don't relish the idea of being jostled or harangued to hurry by impatient peers, and I doubt that our ever fair-minded caregivers would allow us to hold a monopoly for long. But I'm not sure I'm willing to be left out of the loop for however long the excitement takes to wear off, either. It's been so dull around here, lately; a little gaming time would be a welcome distraction."

Any's shoulders tightened slightly, but his pen continued to move. "You realize that's precisely _why_ we're getting a new console, right? To take everyone's mind off of C."

Beyond shrugged even though Any couldn't see it. "Then I'll be enjoying the means of alleviating tedium from a slightly different perspective." He let his feet fall away from the wall until his toes touched the floor over his head. His knees weren't as straight as he would have liked, but they were straighter than most. It was one of two advantages he had in the House's physical education program; he wasn't particularly strong, but he was fast and flexible.

Ignoring his own contortions, he continued. "Do you realize how long it's been since L has dropped by for a proper visit? I would've thought you'd be champing at the bit for one of those."

"He was here a couple weeks ago for the funeral, moron," Any said with a sigh. Unconsciously following the example of the boy behind him, he stretched. "Considering the fact that he's embroiled in a case in China at the moment, we're lucky he managed that much."

"Hardly what I would call a proper visit," Beyond retorted, pouting. "An appearance at the cemetery, a general address that basically broke down to, 'don't let it get you down, continue to work hard' and he was gone. He didn't stop in to see us at all. I doubt he even noticed us in the crowd with everyone else."

Finally Any turned his head to give his friend a sardonic look. "You mean he hardly noticed _you_ and your newest little fashion statement."

Beyond grinned and ran a hand through his recently chopped locks. Far from abandoning his experiment of adopting L's posture and movements, Beyond had been slowly adding to and improving his impersonation of the detective over the months. It didn't matter that L hadn't paid any of his customary visits in that time, Beyond had studied the young man closely and his memory was very close to photographic. He now slouched perpetually - much to every teacher's annoyance - perched in his chairs like a cat, held everything but the heaviest of items with the tips of his forefingers and thumbs, and was even learning to tolerate large intakes of sugar.

His latest 'fashion statement' had been to his hair. He'd gotten into the science lab for a couple of days in a row when it had been empty and had, with a little experimenting and the help of a chemistry text, managed to whip up a batch of homebrewed hair dye. A little time in his private bathroom to snip his overly long hair into an even more raggedy mess and apply the concoction to tint it black and the result was startling. He was nearly as pale as L already, the contacts made his eyes just as dark as the detective's… With the alterations to his hair he might have been L's younger brother.

Roger had been less than pleased over his styling, and over the mess it had created in the bottom of the bathtub. Apparently his homemade chemical clung a little more than what was found on shop shelves, as was doubly proved when Beyond caught sight of the stain trailing down his back in the mirror.

"I really don't get why you did that, B," Any said, staring at the younger boy's hair. "Or why you're acting like him, either. It's not like it'll make you a better detective or anything. We're meant to be replacements, not carbon copies."

Beyond shrugged again, the move made a little more difficult by his doubled over position. The truth was that he wasn't sure why he was doing it either, he just felt like it and no one was stopping him. If he had to give it any kind of rationalization for now, it was just another kind of hobby. "Maybe not, but you gotta admit that's kind of a plus in this place. The closer you are to L, the better."

An eyebrow lifted at that. "So, what? You're hoping to get closer to L by looking and acting like him? A qualities via appearances osmosis? That's weird, even for you."

Beyond stared at Any from under his knees. "'Even for me'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You want a list?"

"Yes."

Any sighed again and turned around in his chair until he was sitting in it backwards. He pushed his bangs out of his face, some of the locks sticking out at odd angles. "You're quiet, antisocial, smart even for the Wammy House, every joint in your body can snap, including your sternum - I didn't even know those _could_ pop - you're practically a contortionist, memory like a computer, you can stomach more than three hours of the news channel at a time, your… uhm…" The boy trailed off suddenly, cheeks coloring slightly.

"My eyes?" Beyond asked quietly.

His color deepening, Any nodded. "Yeah."

Beyond nodded, and considered it a big step forward that he didn't think any less of his friend for his momentary slip. Red eyes were weird; he had red eyes, so he was weird.

"Add to that," Any continued slightly too loudly, "your new thing of impersonating L, and yeah, it's a bit freaky, man."

"Well, that's kind of keeping with the theme around here." The boy rolled backwards over his shoulder, pressing his knees into the floor and sitting up on his heels. "Oddity is the norm."

Any looked skeptical. "Yes, but even here there's a line that can be crossed. You toe it sometimes, if not step over it entirely."

"So? It's not like anyone really cares. And what would I profit by trying to stay 'normal'? I would be stifling myself, if anything."

The other boy pulled a face. "You could try to act a little more normal on a couple of things," he said tiredly.

"Like what?"

"The funeral, maybe? Or just acting like you cared at all that someone died a few weeks ago?" Any nodded at Beyond's guilty little shift. "No one else has noticed it yet, but I can tell. I wasn't close to her, either, but she _died_, B. Someone we knew and lived with is _dead_. Doesn't that affect you at all?"

B picked at a stain on Any's carpet. He had hoped to avoid a conversation like this, but he was the one to blame for it, now. He'd pushed Any into talking. "Why should it?" he asked, sounding petulant. "Everyone dies, it's not like it's a big surprise. And it's not as though I- we didn't know it was coming. She just wasn't getting any better after she got sick." He looked up to see if the elder by had caught his near slip, but if he had, it didn't show.

"Still pretty cold, B," he said, shaking his head.

"Better than getting hung up over something I can't change and which doesn't directly affect me."

Any turned back to his pile of extra work, giving up. Beyond got the impression he wasn't sure how to continue the argument. "Whatever," he said to his desk. "Don't you have something you could be doing in your own room? I'm kind of busy, here."

Which was probably as polite a hint as Beyond was going to get that he should leave. If he pressed his luck now Any would just get irritated. He got up quietly, dusting himself off, and left, leaving Any to his peace.

Deciding to wander the halls a little instead of returning directly to his room, Beyond thought. He thought about what Any had said about his being weird, his little list of what made Beyond stand out, and about his mimicry of L. He supposed that it all did make him peculiar, an unusual orphan who attracted more than his share of attention. And he did nothing to stifle himself. Oh, he was antisocial, just as Any had pointed out, but Beyond did what he liked without worrying what others thought.

Not long ago that wouldn't have been the case.

No one bothered him, over any of it. It really seemed to Beyond as though it had only been his eyes and their bizarre coloring that had made him a target. Since they had been covered by the dark contact lenses, he'd had no trouble save an occasional sideways glance. If he could keep them concealed, maybe he could have something close to a normal life, despite Any's list of his oddities.

Lost in thought, Beyond didn't notice exactly where he was. He didn't see the side-passage he passed within feet of, or how quiet it was in this particular part of the building.

He didn't notice the hands that came out of the shadows until they were pulling him into the darkness, clutching at his arms, shoulders, and the back of his hair, one clapping firmly over his mouth to prevent him crying out.

...

_**A/N2:**__ …Enjoy your cliffhanger, everyone. ;3_


	7. Freak

_**A/N:**__ To everyone enduring the cliffhanger: thank you and congratulations, your patience has been rewarded. :D _

_This is a chapter that I've been looking forward to writing for a long time, but it ended up being difficult to write. Part of the reason why that is should become fairly obvious in the reading of it… I'm so evil to characters in my stories. Please note that the rating is now "__**M**__" for mature. When asked, one of my betas said it didn't quite warrant the change, the other that this chapter was straddled between "T" and "M". So we're upping it to be on the safe side._

_It's highly recommended that the suggested music be listened to while reading this chapter, as it was listened to whenever the chapter was being outlined, written, or edited, and went a long way to pin down certain points._

_I don't often dedicate my writing, but I feel the need to do so for this chapter. So: _

_**To the survivors.**_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. (Give them love, they were pressed a bit for this chapter.)_

_**Music: **_Get Out Alive _by Three Days Grace, _The Beginning is the End is the Beginning_ by The Smashing Pumpkins, and _Lucifer's Angel_ by The Rasmus._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for disturbing imagery, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. True name reveals are a possibility._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Seven, "Freak"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_Children and savages are always cruel."  
~Samuel Johnson~_

_...  
_

It was raining again. It had been trying to get up a good start all day, but always seemed to stall out before getting very far. Now it was so cold that what was coming down was as much ice as water. It wouldn't be long before the season finished its change and the countryside was enveloped in its white winter coat.

Beyond watched the slow transformation through his bedroom window, the condensation of his breath mating the obstruction of half-snow on the other side of the glass. The round of clinging steam grew and thickened until the moisture beaded together and dripped down to gather on the sill. Outside, more droplets were doing the same in a kind of reflection. Beyond stared at the competing beads, his thumb tracing the "B" he had finished carving into the windowsill absently.

_-glinting metal, a slow, cruel smile twisting his features-_

It was a good, deep mark, not one that was going to be removed by sanding. They would have to replace the entire sill to get rid of the errant letter after he was gone. The wood was rough, and offered a tactile contrast from the cold, smooth surface of the window his forehead was pressed against.

The sky was just beginning to show the first signs of darkening, the skeletal shadows of trees reaching along the ground towards the orphanage. It would be time to eat dinner soon. Beyond didn't want to try and make his way down the stairs. He wasn't sure he could stand to be around anyone just now, or that his legs would hold him when he tried to get up. He wasn't hungry, anyway.

"_-not so it shows-"_

He supposed he should have known better. The proverb of all good things coming to an end had long been one of the working gears in Beyond's life, it wasn't likely to change. Had he really expected the promises of a boy barely older than himself to change anything? Nothing had changed. Everything was still the way it had been years before. He'd just been given a brief window of peace before life resumed its natural rhythm.

He'd forgotten how fast it could be, or how disorientating. From the number of hands that had seized him, he'd known there had been more than one person, but how many? They turned him, pushed and pulled and sometimes passed him from hand to hand until Beyond couldn't tell where it was they were forcing him to go, or even how far they were travelling. Wherever it was, it was out of sight. Hidden.

_-worse was they were quiet. If they had made some sound, whispers, sniggers, threats, it would be one thing. Silence meant they were serious-_

Beyond's unfocused gaze caught sight of the nearly invisible reflection hiding in the windowpane. False black hair chopped and mussed, deceptively dark eyes burning in a pale as paper face, mouth pulled into a pouting frown… he looked even more like L in the freezing glass than ever. There weren't even any bruises to be seen. All of his… mementos… were covered.

When responding to danger, the body has three ingrained responses: Fight, flight, or freeze. Beyond's options of either fight or flight were stolen by the hands that held onto him, so he fell back to his third and final alternative.

He froze. Hidden in the back storage room with the three boys that had grabbed him, he stayed frozen. When one let go and the other two held on, he didn't move. When the hand was removed from his mouth, he didn't call out. When the third boy mocked him, told him why they were there and what they would do, Beyond did not respond. It was all too familiar; he knew there was no escape.

_-fingers dug into his arms until the places where they pressed went numb. One of them had longer nails, those sharp pains took longer to lose sensation._

"_Look at him!" Pain raked across his skull as the third boy pulled his hair, forcing his head to one side. Beyond grunted but didn't cry out. Making noise might compel them to silence him._

_Warm breath fluttered on his face as the boy - _Nathan Pierce_; 76, 8, 1, 4, 19, 12 - leaned in close to him. "He thinks he's L already. Well, __you're__not.__ And you're not better than us, either, freak."_

_Nathan let go of his hair, and the other two pulled his arms further behind his back, threatening to dislocate both shoulders. Beyond bit his lip to remain silent. "You both remember-"_

Beyond breathed against the glass of the window, causing the moisture to bead together faster and drip to the sill, competing with the droplets on the outside. Both sides would reach their end, but one would get there first. Would it be the ones on the outside, constantly buffeted and at the mercy of the elements, or the ones on the inside, who were more sheltered? More sheltered… but forced to progress faster than was natural. Beyond breathed out again, placing mental bets on which category would win the race.

Beyond watched the water on his side speed to its end, wondering if it wanted to die.

_-no matter how many times it happened, the first blow always caught you by surprise-_

There'd be no point in trying to get away, he knew that from experience. He'd be caught again, and then they would be angry, his punishment worse. Better to put up with it, get it over with and leave, than to struggle and drag it out.

"_-remember, places where it won't show-"_

If he just held still and let them have their fun, it'd be over with so much quicker. They would get tired and bored with his lack of struggling or screaming, and give up.

_-caught a sliver of light shining through a crack in the door, revealing the merciless edge of a box-cutter-_

He just had to stay quiet.

It wasn't true, what all the stories said. There were no heroes in the world who charged in at the last moment to save you. In real life, there is no rescue. In real life, people aren't even aware when these things happen. There could be salvation waiting a mere wall's thickness away, and it would never come, because people were deaf and blind to it. If the tormentors were clever, they could do whatever they pleased and no one would ever be the wiser.

One thing that could be said for the children of Wammy House: They were all _very_ clever.

Beyond, still as a stone and watching the rain spatter down on a slowly dying world, felt something hot bubbling up within him. Not fear, his usual companion, but anger. It filled him up, roiling and twisting in his gut until he felt more nauseous than before. Anger not just towards the ones who had hurt him, but to those who were meant to be shielding him.

_-cut off his own scream as the razor carved into his flesh, the bright metal staining with thick, blackish red-_

L, Roger, Mr. Wammy, even Any. They all told him, in word or deed, that they would protect him.

_-blade cut deeper, twisting-_

Where were they when he needed them?

_-low chuckles-_

They who promised that his life would be better here?

_-his attempts to remain silent failed-_

Why weren't they saving him?

_-whimpers, sobs-_

Why was he enduring this alone?

_-flashing, dripping blade paused, its wielder observing his handiwork with a grimacing smile. For so small a thing, it could ruin flesh effectively. For how young the one holding it, he knew just how to use it._

_Beyond sniffled as quietly as he could, swallowing back more sobs before they could escape. All of his effort to stay as blank as possible was for nothing. If this had just been a beating he could have done it. If this had been any other orphanage, with any other orphans, he could have done it. But these children were cleverer than the average population, and more calculating. They didn't want to vent by using their fists, they wanted to cause pain and prove their supremacy._

_And they knew how to make the pain as terrible and lasting as possible, without getting caught._

_The blade closed in again, to further caress and destroy-_

The drop on the inside of the window found the sill first, by half a second. Beyond lost his own bet. Rain lasted longer than sheltered condensation.

The anger was illogical. Roger's office was on the other side of the building, Mr. Wammy and L were still in Guăngzhōu, and Any had been buried in his books, probably still was. Beyond knew that if any of them had known, they would have stepped in. He'd even overheard Any defending him once, telling another orphan to back off and leave him alone. Beyond never found out who it was, Any had stepped in so quickly. It was surprising, and it had been one of the things to solidify his friendship with the freckled boy.

The anger was illogical, but it was still there.

Beyond shifted in his seat, pulling away from the window, and hissed as the stinging pain reasserted itself. He had cleaned and bandaged his wounds, but there was still some friction that played along the fresh injuries.

"_-take them off of him-"_

If he were to walk into class now, he doubted that anyone would notice anything wrong with him. He'd worked hard to be unnoticeable, and that worked in favor of his torturers. No one would question his quiet or paleness. Cecilia's death would also be working to their advantage, distracting everyone with their grief.

_-the storeroom was cold, and Beyond couldn't help but shiver as he was held in place, forced to stand and watch in nothing but his boxers as Nathan Pierce came close with the razor-_

He would have his nightmares again. If not tonight, then the next, and for many nights to come. They hadn't visited him for a long time, but today would have them resurfacing. If the cuts across his body and the humiliation of being stripped and helpless weren't enough, then the fire certainly would be.

After he'd been cut, they'd burned him, leaving the lighter lit until the metal was blisteringly hot and pressing it into the gashes. Around his hips where the waistband of his pants would continuously chafe and rub, the fronts and backs of his knees and elbows, across the front of his armpits where movement would reopen them and sweat would sting them, his ankles and soles of his feet so every step was agony… all precise and all invisible. These and the other places he was cut were all hidden when he was dressed, and would continue to torture him long after he left the storeroom. By the time the lighter was brought out, he'd nearly been senseless with pain, blood loss, and the vague fear that they would go too far and accidentally kill him. How could he know for sure? His own numbers were a mystery to him.

The distinctive sound of metal striking flint made him look up, and the sight of the tiny flame ignited the old terror waiting within him. Practically hanging between the two boys holding him, he'd finally put up a fight, but he was too weak to break free. They just mocked the fear he finally showed, and went on.

_-finally screamed as the metal seared into him, but one of the boys holding him slapped a hand across his mouth, stifling the sound. Even now, there would be no rescue-_

How they had managed to get him back to his room without being caught, either by teachers or wandering children, Beyond didn't know. He was too dazed, concentrating on anything but how badly he hurt, about the scene that had just been played out, to take in what was going on. He remembered being half-carried, half-walking down the halls and the distant sounds of Nathan Pierce and his cronies talking lowly to each other, and then the feeling of falling through space as he was shoved into his room. The pain of his head hitting the carpet was nothing.

_-didn't try to move right away, just lay face down on his floor, waiting. He could still feel a presence behind him, standing in his doorway._

"_Do I even need to tell you what will happen if you say anything?"_

_Beyond almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because there was no other response he could come up with to the pain and exhaustion. When he felt he could speak without either laughing or crying, he spoke. It was the only word they had gotten out of him during the entire time, and he only said it once:_

"_No."_

After they left, Beyond stayed in place for awhile, waiting until he was sure he wouldn't fall over as soon as he tried to get up. Then, staggering still, he'd gone into his bathroom to assess the damage and clean away the mess. Peeling out of his blood stained clothing, he couldn't help but note that they hadn't bothered to button or zip up his jeans when they'd redressed him.

The cuts hurt, and because of their placements they would continue to hurt as they healed, but they were mostly shallow. Nothing had been seriously damaged, and he could take care of cleaning and dressing them all with the small first aid kit all the bathrooms were equipped with. It took longer than it should have to get clean, but he had to move slowly, and was occasionally interrupted by the need to retch into the porcelain bowl.

More than two hours later he was clean. The trails of itchy, drying blood were sponged away, all his future scars cleaned, salved and bandaged or gauzed, and himself dressed in a fresh set of clothes. His soiled ones he would find a way of disposing of later.

Now… now Beyond wondered what he should do next. Telling any adult what had happened was out of the question, and not just because he _said_ he wouldn't. Bringing attention to this would only guarantee a repeat of it. But keeping silent was no solution, either. He wouldn't back down from his position as "B".

And Beyond couldn't take that kind of torture again.

He had to leave. He had to get away from this cage before it suffocated him completely.

Beyond got up, the cuts and burns flaring to life, and walked out his door, only stopping long enough to shove his bandaged feet into his sneakers. He was leaving Wammy House, and to hell with anyone who got in his way.

...

It would figure, when he let his feet take him wherever they happened to go, that he would wind up here.

When he arrived at the cemetery gate, it was just becoming dark in earnest, with cloying shadows not only of the trees clawing their way across the paths, but of tombstones as well. As the sun went down, it was as though the dead were clambering their way back up into the world, their dark, shadowy forms visible only from the corner of your eye. The living would do well to avoid walking among them, for danger of joining the dusky brethren in their eternal rest.

Beyond walked amid the stones and shadows without fear, only being careful where he set his feet on the darkening path. The dead held no terrors for him, even at night; it was the living he wanted to avoid. Amidst the departed he would be granted some measure of peace.

No one had seen him leave the House, as everyone had been in the dining room. He'd ridden out unmolested into the chill evening that threatened snow, wearing nothing save his shirt, jeans and shoes. He wasn't even wearing socks, and gauze didn't have much value for holding in warmth. With the sky still sending down sporadic bouts of freezing rain, Beyond was soon soaked through and shivering.

He hadn't paid any attention which way he was going, nor did he know why he'd pulled up at the gate, his tires crunching and scattering gravel. Still following some inner prompting, he left the bike at the gate and gone in on foot, where his body still appeared to know where it was going if his mind didn't.

He came to a stop in front of a grave that had become familiar to him. Etched forever into the stone:

C  
Cecilia  
Young Potential Taken Too Soon

He stared at the epitaph, his muddled mind finding no particular reason why he would have come to this place. He'd just wanted out of the House, why was he at C's grave? His brain was too fogged to find reason, so he just concentrated on what was, rather than why it was.

The stone, with its name and numbers scratched deep into the granite, took over Beyond's awareness. The rough surface, the gentle curve of its apex, how fresh and new it looked with no mosses clinging to it and its base newly planted in the soil. His body chilled further, the mixed rain and snow soaking through his bandages, numbing him. Beyond didn't notice.

The name and set of numbers showing how long little Cecilia had lasted in her time on earth became Beyond's entire field of vision. It was ridiculous how close what was written on the stone was to what Beyond saw every day over every person's head. When one died their label was forever burnt out, freeing them from the reminder of their fate, only to be replaced with another. One that everyone could see.

Ironic that when he died, everyone would be able to see his numbers, when he had never been able to.

The rain plastered Beyond's hair down flat to his skull, tiny trails of lingering black dye snaking down his face. He had no sensation left in his ears or nose, but he could feel the water dripping down his body. Daylight was quickly losing its battle with darkness, and his breath froze in the air, birthing tiny clouds.

With fingers that could no longer feel and moved sluggishly, Beyond slid a dark contact out of his eye, one half of the world lightening the barest fraction. He stared at the extracted disc for a minute before taking out the other one, his pupils feeling instantly more vulnerable and cold without their covers. So small, they didn't cover more than the tips of his fingers, but they had made such a difference. He'd been able to walk without fear among his peers, and had gone for months without worrying about being moved along to the next orphanage in a long line. He'd felt as though he'd finally found a home… And it all came crashing down today.

The child of garnet eyes, clothed in dripping sleeves and the deepening shadows of the dead, snarled.

Beyond crushed the soft plastic in his hands and flung them out as far as he could. It didn't matter! None of it! It didn't matter if his eyes were red or if they were black, he was still a freak! It didn't matter how well he did or how high in Wammy's system he was, it didn't protect him! It didn't matter how hard he tried, he was the exact same scared little boy as when he'd first arrived.

Beyond's frozen, bloody gaze drifted to where two empty plots awaited their sleepers. The final resting places for A and B. The twelve year old boy stared into his own grave.

It didn't matter, because eventually, he would die, and all he had accomplished would crumble away to dust.

Suddenly more tired than he remembered being in a very long time, Beyond left C's grave and the plots that would eventually possess himself and Any. His feet were completely numb now, but it wasn't surprising. His canvas shoes were completely soaked, and what was coming down now was more snow than rain. In the dark and his legs leaden, Beyond stumbled down the path like a drunk.

There was a stretch of trees the path twisted through before opening again for the graveled parking area, and Beyond didn't make it through them. He was too tired, too cold to keep going. He knew that he was in trouble. The abuse and blood loss had probably thrown his body into some amount of shock, and now to be caught outside, at night, soaking wet and with the temperature plummeting, his prospects were diminishing every second. And no one knew where he was.

Somehow, even knowing his position, Beyond couldn't quite find it in himself to care.

Deciding that he wanted to sit, Beyond walked off of the path and up into the slightly deeper shadows of the trees. Finding a small hollow formed by a tree's jutting roots, he wedged himself in and leaned back against the trunk. It felt so good to sit, to rest. He'd grown so cold that parts of him were starting to feel warm again. That was an extremely bad sign, but for now, it just felt good. The boy nestled back further, pulling his knees close.

In the failing light he couldn't see much, but Beyond could see the stains on the knees of his jeans. It was blood. The cuts in his kneecaps had reopened when he bent them too far and were soaking through the bandaging and his pants, ruining a second pair. Beyond couldn't even feel it anymore.

Staring at the seeping, creeping patches, Beyond smiled a little, his eyes drifting closed. Most boys his age, their knees would be stained with mud from play, while his were with blood. He found that fitting, somehow.

With snow beginning to fall heavily and the sun nothing but a memory over the horizon, Beyond fell asleep surrounded by the dead.

...

…

…

… _Well,_ Beyond thought groggily, _if I'm dead, the afterlife sucks._

Beyond slowly surfaced out of a dreamless sleep, and found that he'd rather preferred it to what was waiting for him on awakening. He'd fallen asleep with a growing feeling of warmth and all of his pain effectively numbed by the cold he had actually been surrounded with. Now he was certainly warm and laying on something soft, but his body felt heavy, and every pain he remembered - plus a few new ones - came back to rake over his nerves with renewed enthusiasm. He probably wasn't dead, but if this is what he had to put up with to stay alive, he could do without it.

He tried to move, his body was sluggish to respond. What was meant to be a roll over onto his side only resulted in a slight shift to his left. This was enough, apparently, to get someone's attention.

"You're awake!" Beyond flinched at the sudden volume, but whoever it was didn't notice. There was the sound of running feet, a door flying open, then that same voice yelling to someone distant. "Hey! Go get Roger, quick, B is awake!" The thumping feet came running back, and a weight pressed into one side of the bed, making B roll a little more to his left.

He opened his eyes, getting just far enough to make out the spare room that had been made into a sickroom for Cecilia. It was bright. The light that crept in caused the dull, hitherto unnoticed throbbing at the base of his skull to sharpen. Deciding that sight wasn't as high a priority as he thought, Beyond covered his eyes with a hand to block out the intrusive light. Or he tried to, anyway. There was something wrong with the way his body responded to commands; motion was exaggerated, even though everything felt ten times too heavy. The result of trying to cover his eyes with a hand was that his entire arm flopped heavily over his face.

"Are you alright?" said the voice concernedly. It didn't matter that he couldn't see who was talking; Beyond recognized Any's voice better than most others.

Beyond licked his lips, grimacing. The inside of his mouth tasted like a sewer. A dried out sewer. His first attempt to speak only resulted in a strangled squeak. A second try was more successful. "No." He paused, the exact memories of his most recent experiences making their way through the mind fog. He started to feel nauseous again. "In fact," he said lowly, "I think I'm incredibly far from 'alright' at the moment."

The supine boy couldn't see his friend, but he heard him shift, and felt the pressure on his side of the bed change. Any's voice lowered, as though he were trying to prevent someone from overhearing him. "What the hell were you doing out there, Beyond?" his hissed, one of his rare uses of Beyond's name telling him how affected he was. "You could have died out there, you great bloody idiot! Why would you even want to go to a graveyard at night in November?"

Beyond didn't reply. He couldn't answer without getting into every aspect of what had happened, and he didn't feel like sharing. Nor did he feel like he could construct a plausible lie on the spot, he wasn't up for it. So he remained silent.

Lack of reply didn't stop Any in the least. "Beyond, they're… they were talking about you condition when they thought I wasn't listening. About… things they found during your examination… B, what _happened_?"

Beyond felt himself stiffen. Of course they found the fresh lacerations on his body. And when they decided to come in, they would question him about them. They had to. And what would he say? That he'd done it to himself? He couldn't name names, or he would only get the same treatment again later. It didn't matter if his 'telling' had been unintentional, any punishment the boys received would be taken out of Beyond's hide.

And until the adults came in and started their inquiry, he had a concerned friend waiting to hear why he'd been half-frozen and looking like the losing end of a fight with a shredder in a cemetery. From the intensity and subtle tremble in Any's voice, he wouldn't be put off, either.

_Well, too bad,_ Beyond thought, deliberately turning his face away.

"Hey-!"

Further protests were cut off by the sound of the door opening again. Any quieted immediately, and Beyond felt him twist around to see who it was that came in.

That had to be Roger at the door. Beyond did his best to gather together his scattered senses. Roger could be cursed persistent, and Beyond's bedridden state would be of no help in deterring his questions. The man would want to know as soon as possible who had hurt him. Ready or not, Beyond would have to deal with it now.

The voice that spoke wasn't Roger's, though. It was too light, and assumed a tendency to sound surly. If a voice could have a posture, this one would have slouched. "Any," it said, "please exit the room for a few moments. I would like to talk with B."

If the elder orphan was as surprised as Beyond at L's sudden appearance, it was lost in his attempt to fight the detective's request. "But L, he just woke up and-"

"-and I would like to speak with him with as little delay as possible," L finished smoothly. He paused, and Beyond imagined they were attempting to stare each other down. Finally, "If he's not feeling too tired when we've finished our discussion, then I'm sure he will be willing to spare you some time. For now, though, I have to ask you to leave us alone."

There was another pregnant pause, and Beyond wondered how far Any would press the issue. If he would get himself bodily removed or if they would both end up leaving the room to continue their argument and forget about him. He hoped so.

But no. There were lighter footsteps, the door opening and closing, and Beyond was left alone with L. This was so much worse than if Roger had been the one to question him. With L there was even less probability that any lie he told would be effective, or that he would give in if Beyond proved to be too resistive to answer questions. Biting the inside of his cheek, Beyond waited, determined to not be the first one to speak.

When it felt as though he had been waiting for more than ten minutes for L to either ask him something or to leave, the detective finally made a noise. Footsteps. Bare feet on carpet and the gentle sound of worn jean legs brushing against each other. It travelled all the way around Beyond, to his other side, where it was joined by the sound of curtains rattling along their rod.

"The room is darker now, B," L said quietly. "It should be dim enough for your eyes to handle comfortably."

Still feeling strangely heavy and robotic, Beyond removed the arm from his eyes and cracked them open a sliver. It was much dimmer without sunlight streaming into the room, and the throbbing in his skull remained mere background. He could just see L's legs as his vision cleared.

"How are you feeling this afternoon, B?" L asked with no hint of condescension.

Beyond was still on guard, regardless. This was just the beginning; this was L slowly working his way to the real issue instead of jumping straight to the heart of it. It was slightly out of character, but Beyond doubted that L had ever been faced with something like this quite so close to his own doorstep. That didn't mean Beyond would make it any easier. "Thirsty," he said flatly. "Headache. Body hurts. Tired."

"All understandable, even taking into consideration the day and a half you've been laid up here. There's a glass of water and some Advil on the bed stand, which should help two of your complaints."

The boy looked and found the items. He was so eager to drink the water that he almost forgot to swallow the capsules as well. When the glass was drained and his tongue no longer cleaved the roof of his mouth he fell back into the pillows, sitting up. Glancing back, he saw L was pulling a wooden chair close to the bed. "A day and a half?" Beyond asked, the rest of L's comment sinking in.

"Yes," L said, planting his feet onto the seat of the chair and settling back onto his haunches, shifting slightly to find a comfortable position.

The younger boy attempted to calculate in his head, but it was too full of cotton to work properly. "When did you get here?"

In the dim room, with the only weak source of light coming from behind him, it was hard to make out L's expression. After a moment he said, "Approximately three A.M. this morning."

And he had to have flown in from China, stalling his case twice in a month's time. "That was fast," was Beyond's only comment.

L's head tilted to one side. "Quite," he said blandly.

After that it just seemed to be a matter of waiting before L started demanding names and details of Beyond's attack. The boy concentrated on his shields, staring down the seated sleuth.

His legs curled underneath him in their customary position and his thumb in place at the pouting curve of his lower lip, L looked intently back at the boy. Then: "I see what you've done to your hair, and heard from Roger how exactly you managed it." He leaned forward slightly, head down as though he were imparting some secret tidbit of information. "He's still somewhat upset over it, just so you know."

Beyond stared at the detective, garnet eyes wide as his elder completely switched gears.

L continued, oblivious or ignoring the boy's incredulous stare. "I suggested that he let you purchase your dyes from now on, or to visit a proper barber's shop, since you are obviously very determined. It should save everyone some trouble, including the housekeepers, and save on some wear for our washroom appliances. Although," he added as an afterthought, "it is somewhat amusing to see Roger struggle between being upset over the mess your experiment made or proud of your ability to concoct it on your own. He's not a man used to such ambiguities, but he may have to acquire a taste for them, being in charge of this particular orphanage."

The teenager paused in his monologue, and gazed off into the middle-distance somewhere over Beyond's sickbed. The boy wondered what kind of trick he was trying to pull to get him to talk. L noticed the dark red eyes on him and affected an innocently curious demeanor. "Yes?"

Beyond blinked. "What?"

"You wanted to ask something?"

"No."

L pointed at Beyond, waggling his finger to indicate the boy's entire face. "Your expression denoted otherwise. It was the very picture of inquisitive befuddlement. Please tell me what it is you want to know."

He sighed. "I was just wondering what you were talking about."

"Ah." L nodded shortly, his naturally black bangs falling into dark eyes. "That's reasonable, although perhaps a better way to say it would be that you wonder _why_ I am talking about Roger's sluggishness in adapting to new modes, rather than what. I know you're intelligent enough to grasp the general idea."

Beyond nodded, feeling more tired the longer the conversation went on, although he was fairly sure that it was because of L's way of communicating rather than talking in general.

"Perhaps you were also wondering when I would ask you about your assault."

The boy stiffened instantly. He tried to read the man's expression, but his attempts were hindered by the black curtain of hair still obstructing the man's owlish eyes. "Perhaps you worry," he continued, voice flat, "about being hounded by difficult questions regarding the origins of those wounds. The mien of them is obvious enough, and the possibility of retaliation should you own up the identities of the perpetrators not far-fetched."

Beyond shifted under the blanket covering him. He was suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm, his two-day old wounds itched under their dressings.

If L noticed B's fidget, he didn't acknowledge it. "Even knowing your level of intelligence and practicality, an attack of such cold brutality no doubt left an impression on you. It's not so difficult to imagine that you might shield your attackers out of some misguided sense of self-preservation."

By now Beyond's head was bowed as far as it could go, hiding his face just as L's was behind his bangs. Picking at the blanket in his lap, his reply was a defiant mumble. "I won't tell you who it was. It doesn't matter."

"Oh, doesn't it? I beg to differ on that point." The wood of the seat groaned as the man sitting in it shifted his weight slightly. "Beyond the obvious outrage of the attack on your person, we also have to consider the potential hazard such personalities could present to others as well, both here and when they have grown to adulthood. Speaking as an agent who works to put a stop to such activities on a global scale, letting this incident go as superfluous is not a palatable option. Despite any personal objections you may have on this subject, it is important to me and to this institution." L paused, apparently waiting for some kind of reply. When Beyond failed to do so, he went on. "Fortunately, I won't need to question you directly. Which is just as well given how resistive you're being."

Beyond glanced up through his hair. "What do you mean?"

L's face was bland. "Who do you think I am?" Thankfully that was a rhetorical question, and L didn't wait for an answer. "Less than 24 hours ago, I received a panicked phone call from Roger, telling me that a second child was at Death's door in the space of a few weeks. Worse, the damage he suffered appeared to have been inflicted by fellow orphans unknown. I dropped what I was doing, delaying my case in Canton for the second time, with the sole purpose of discovering what I could and rectifying whatever possible." The heavy hematite eyes seemed to cloud, growing even darker. "There is no way to truly put right what has already been committed, but there are some things that can be attended to."

"In my list of completed cases," he continued after a barely perceptible pause, "I have acted in the interest of several that either centered around or involved some form of child abuse. I know that when faced with direct questions, the victim is unlikely to be forthcoming."

Beyond bridled at being called a victim to his face, but held his tongue.

L, for his part, was fiddling with one of the candies his pockets always seemed to be lined with as he talked. "While I prioritize the well-being of the Wammy House and its occupants, my time is of some value. Coming here, I already had it in mind to proceed without any contribution from you. For one, there was no indication of when you would be recovering from your state of unconsciousness, and once you did, no guarantee you would behave any other way than as you are. The conclusion of all this being," L popped the candy, a red and white striped peppermint, into his mouth, "that those responsible have already been discovered and dealt with."

Beyond felt his heart sink. So, it didn't matter that he hadn't said a word. By his carelessness in coming under medical care, he had exposed his attackers. They were already undergoing whatever punishments L had decided to dole out, and would be less than forgiving the next time the saw him. The slowly dulling pain at his joints where the razor edge and heated metal had touched him suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the imaginings of future encounters Beyond was assaulted with.

"What's happening to them?" he asked.

"Given the nature of their misconduct, the only appropriate action was expulsion."

Beyond's head shot up, sending a small jolt of pain as his headache tried to reignite. He stared at L, not sure he'd heard him right, praying that he had, anxious it was some sort of cruel joke… "What?"

"Well, perhaps 'expulsion' isn't quite the right word, since this is technically an orphanage. Let's say instead that they have 'transferred'." L got up, hopping out of his chair in his usual fashion and nearly sending the seat tumbling backward. Shoulders curving forward in a gentle arc, he looked down at the boy in the bed. "It was a concept we had in mind back in the early days of planning the Wammy House, to have an auxiliary outpost, to handle such things as overflow, infectious outbreak, serious interrelationship issues and the like. Until now it has remained empty, but ready." The man sighed, his already slumped posture deflating a little more.

"It's unfortunate that its first residents are there as a matter of rehabilitation."

B was stunned. He had imagined himself remaining forever on the lookout for the trio that had cornered him, worried they would take whatever frustrations they had out on him if he proved convenient. It seemed impossible that he had been spared from that, all as he slept.

A spidery hand deposited a candy in his lap, making Beyond look up. L gave him a rare smile. "We're here to create heroes," he said. "Not monsters."

...

Quillish Wammy watched as L exited the room where B was convalescing after his ordeal, where Cecilia had not so long ago rested before her final decline. The slightly rotund, sandy haired child with the smattering of freckles across his nose didn't even wait for the detective to clear the doorway before forcing himself past to get back by the side of his friend. Any had been holding vigil over the red-eyed boy since he'd been brought in. During the report given by Roger, he and L had learned that Any was also the one to spot the younger boy's bicycle at the cemetery gate during the search. L let him pass without a word, and walked close to his compatriot, rolling some sweet morsel or other across his tongue.

"Well?" Quillish asked without preamble.

L shrugged his bony shoulders. "He does poorly," he said, red and white stripes peeking from behind his teeth. "But he's not as declined as I had feared. My orders to the psychologist and staff still stand, however."

The gray-haired man nodded his understanding. Once the extent of B's trauma had been understood, L had given instructions to every adult in the facility to keep an eye on the boy when he was recovered, to watch for any unusual behavior. The psychologist was to surreptitiously feel about for any potential for B to repeat what had been done to him on other children.

L walked past Quillish, continuing down the hall. The case here was done, and the teenager was impatient to get back to the one left behind. And, Quillish suspected, the boy also wanted to be away from the House out of some sense of guilt. These children were all here trying to emulate him, and were in fact committing the very acts they were meant to prevent on each other. Quillish fell into step a stride behind and slightly to the right of L. "Do you think that B is a danger to himself?" he asked the white back in front of him.

The soft, raven black locks shook from side to side. "Not in the way you mean. But he's apathetic in regards to his own safety, and reckless, which doesn't make for a good combination."

Quillish hesitated a beat before asking his next question. "What about toward others?"

Again the head swayed. "I think that B harbors about as much malice towards other people as I do, Quillish."

...

_**A/N2:**__ I now suggest that everyone go out and do something happy. Have a picnic, do a little dance, eat some cake, something. :p_

_So Beyond is being pressed, but isn't quite over the edge yet; which means something more has got to happen to get there. Poor kid, the things I'm doing to him. (As a side-note, I __**really**__ wish there was a 'Psychological' option for genres.) _

_**Guăngzhōu**__ and __**Canton**__ are both, in fact, the same city. Located in southeast China, it's a port city on the Pearl River with a combined population of city and urban areas of about 16.9 million. O.o_

_By now everyone should be used to the time leaps that are happening between chapters, but as a small warning, there will be a larger than average one between chapters 7 and 8. It's also likely that the next update will take a little longer than this one did, mostly because it's not as high priority with no cliffhanger to satisfy, but also because I need a little recharge after writing this chapter. L's dialogue alone wore me out. -.-;_

_**Thanks for reading, everyone, I'll be back before too long! ^^**_


	8. Contemplation

_**A/N:**__ And we are back from the little break to regain sanity... just in time to really start breaking it down. ^^ Thank you everyone for the awesome reviews, (I'm sorry for being so slow to reply lately, things are getting hectic around here), and for being so understanding of my need to step back for a little while after the last chapter. We are now getting to the truly heavy aspects of the story - like it wasn't heavy enough already - and in fact, this will be the last semi-normal chapter at all. The practical translation being: Strap in, things are finally going to start getting crazy after this. _

_My goal for productivity is to try and get chapter 10 up before the 26__th__ of May, as that is when I'll be leaving town to head for my very first ever anime convention! (Happy dance!) SkyTurtle3 and I will be making the pilgrimage of nerdy-ness to Boise, Idaho to attend Anime Oasis, both of us cosplaying as __Death Note__ characters. (Beyond and Near… guess which one's which. ;D) With chapter 10 up by then, there will only be 3 left to go, so fingers crossed. (If anyone else is headed out that way, let us know; we love meeting fellow otaku! ^^)_

_**Please note**__ that in this chapter, while not as dramatic as the last, we have definitely earned the "M" rating. If you have a weak stomach or delicate sensibilities, please proceed with caution. If you're used to such things as descriptive or detailed gore, then you should be fine. One of my betas is 13 years old, and she had no trouble, but she's desensitized to such things. Also, for anyone following the music, the focus of this chapter's tune is slightly different. Whereas past tracks have come from the POV of either B or the storyline, this one takes a kind of foreshadowing stance for chapter 9._

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

_**Music:**_ Behind Blue Eyes _by Limp Bizkit._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for graphic and disturbing imagery, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both __Death Note__ and __Death Note: Another Note__._

_**Disclaimer:**__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Eight, "Contemplation"

Raven Ehtar

...

"…_Life is immortal because the living must die."  
~Christopher Hatton~_

_...  
_

"Any, would you hurry up, already? Take much longer and they're going to leave without us!"

There was a muffled reply from the other side of the heavy wooden door, most likely rude, but it was hard to make out. Beyond, leaning against the wall just beside it and waiting for his friend to finish his preparations for their 'field trip' and emerge, wasn't really listening. Yelling for him to hurry was more to annoy Any than to get him to quicken pace. Their little outing consisted entirely of him, Any, L, and whatever representative was waiting at their destination to guide them. Their ride wouldn't leave when a third of the party was absent. Even if it would start with one missing, Beyond wasn't going downstairs until Any did. It was be a poor excuse for a lesson if only the instructors were in attendance.

Beyond scuffed a toe into the thin carpet absently, the shoes he was wearing feeling clunky and weird to one used to tramping about barefoot. He wasn't in any particular hurry to get going, but he wondered why Any was taking so long. There wasn't anything they were required to bring on this trip, not even notepads. All that was actually _required_ of them was they wear close-toed shoes, long pants, shirts whose sleeves could be rolled up if they were long, and a jacket in case they got chilled. Why that would mean Any taking nearly an hour to get ready was something of a mystery.

The fourteen-year-old tugged at his white cuffs. He hadn't needed to change his daily attire to meet the criteria; he'd only added the lightweight jacket draped over one arm. Beyond looked down at his clothes and smiled just a little bit. Without the aid of a mirror he knew that he looked more like L than he ever did.

His hair was still raggedly cut and dyed black, his contacts had been replaced, and he had, over the course of a few months, begun experimenting with making his face look like L's as well. Most of the basics were already in place via genetics, thankfully. His eyes were almost as large as L's and spaced about right, his chin was fairly pointed and cheekbones high. All that was needed was a little clever shading and touches to give himself a slightly paler complexion, a narrower bridge to his nose, a shallower set to his eyes, and the ever-present bags that clung to the young insomniac. His experiments with the make-up had been gradual enough that no one had noticed until the dark bags. Then there had been some curious, questioning glances, but no demands from on high that he desist.

Not that he would have had there been.

The face was only a portion of his imitation, however. There were some more complex details that were challenging, but which Beyond applied himself to readily. Already he'd practiced with posture and walking and sitting, from there he worked on facial expressions, tone of voice and speech patterns, and eating habits. In two years he'd come to resemble the detective so much that the white long-sleeved shirt and jeans were almost an afterthought.

Except Beyond's attention to detail reigned over attire as well. It had taken three tries to finally find a shirt that satisfied him, and the jeans had taken entirely too long to develop the same soft, worn look as L's. That was partly due to Beyond's growing and the need to replace any pair he outgrew with crisp new ones. He seemed to have hit a plateau in his height recently, though, at barely five foot four inches, and not grown for a sufficiently long period of time for the denim to wear properly.

Beyond still wasn't sure if his pleasure over the pants outweighed his annoyance over his lack of height.

And speaking of annoyances… He banged on Any's door hard enough to shake it in its frame. "Hey! It's not like you need to dress fancy, no one there is going to care!"

The reply was still muffled, but Beyond was pretty sure he heard the phrase 'impatient jackass' amid the incomprehensible. How extremely rude. Beyond chuckled.

All in all, not that much had changed in two years at Wammy House. (Two years! To think that he'd stayed for almost four altogether!) Any still kept his place at the top, Beyond was comfortably right behind, and those after them had steadied a little more, but still shifted often enough to make keeping track a chore. Since Cecilia's death there had been five other 'C's try to take her place, all of whom eventually failed. The current 'C', a deaf boy whose name was Jordan Bagwell, was lasting longer than his predecessors, but was still a touch unstable in his place. Unstable enough that L had opted to leave him out of their excursion.

Not too much had changed even in the wake of Beyond's attack, for which he was quietly grateful for, in a way. If there had been a surge of stricter guidelines following that - while it would have been more than reasonable - Beyond would have felt like it would just be calling further attention to him. But save for one or two adjustments in protocol and the three boys' transfers, all changes remained unseen by the wards of the orphanage. Beyond's scars were healed and starting to fade, and the boys had yet to come back from the 'auxiliary outpost' they'd been sent to. No one heard how they were doing or if they were ever going to return to the House, and Beyond didn't feel the need to inquire.

Any had become a little more… at hand since then, especially in the first few months following. If he had been in the habit of keeping company with the red-eyed boy before, then he had become a constant companion for weeks afterwards. It was a little odd, but a practice Beyond was hard pressed to make him give up. Even as Any began to spend less time attached at his hip, Beyond made it a quiet point to remain close. Having Any nearby offered a certain level of protection, and any added layers were appreciated. Even with the only three to have ever harmed him at Wammy House far away and himself out of their reach, there was now a very fresh and pointed reminder that burned in his mind:

It could happen again.

Beyond arched his back, stretching out his cramping shoulders before they settled back into a now customary slump. He shifted his feet, their confining footwear still irritating him. He thought about shouting at Any again to relieve his genuinely developing boredom, but decided against it. Instead he studied the wall opposite him, letting his mind drift.

Like most of the institution, this hallway sported dark wood paneling, occasionally interrupted by equally dark doors leading to private rooms. The carpet was worn practically to nothing at its center where traffic was the heaviest, and was still thin where floor met paneled wall. It was also dark, but it was hard to distinguish if that was a result of design or age. Between the doors paintings, quality prints and tapestries had been hung, apparently to add light and color to the otherwise cavern-like hall, although the success of that was debatable. Beyond could only assume that the art had been added to gradually since the orphanage's construction and subsequent refurbishing.

The one that caught the adolescent's attention was, unsurprisingly, the one directly in front of him. It was a landscape scene done in oils, with almost painful detail and a depth of texture that was impossible not to admire. A set of high, craggy mountains, deep indigo in the distance and topped with a creeping white snowcap slowly gave ground to a carpet of deepening green; a valley of towering pine. As the forest approached the viewer, they too fell away to a field of grasses and flowers, crisscrossed with the long shadows of evening.

It was incredibly peaceful, and Beyond silently applauded the painter and their skill with a brush. Staring into the oils, it was almost as though he were looking out of a window onto the scene. The one and only objection he had to the piece was the one and only allowance the artist had made for 'human perspective'.

Still as beautifully detailed and executed as all the rest, but tucked into the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas, almost lost in shadow, stood the aged and crumbling frame of a lone building. What it had once been - home, barn, shed - was impossible to tell, save that it had been small. Now though, with its roof collapsed and sagging, its plank walls askew and thick with mildew, nature was doing its best to reclaim the abandoned structure.

It was a good painting, but the last detail left a lingering impression of loneliness and discomfort.

The rest of the wall decorations were as motley mix as was expected to be found, from portraits and architecture to abstracts and even an aged film poster or two. It surprised Beyond somewhat that the Wammy organization had chosen to leave them all more or less untouched, particularly the few dozen tapestries hanging throughout the place. He would have thought with the number of young children running about they would have been packed safely away. Miraculously, though, the woven murals were left in peace by even the most capricious orphans. He had yet heard of anyone getting in trouble for sticky fingers on the aged cloth, or of artful impulses with scissors.

Finally, the door opened, revealing a frowning teen with sandy hair a stubborn spray of freckles clinging to his cheeks. Any glared at Beyond, who returned the furious expression with a smile. "You," he said, ignoring the innocent look, "are an irritating little monkey."

"Thank you," Beyond replied, unaffected. "Are you ready to go now?"

The older teen groaned in disgust, but he came out into the hall, closing the door behind him. In two years, Any had changed more physically than Beyond had. The mussed, sandy locks remained the same, as did the bright green eyes that crinkled at their corners whenever he grinned and the light dust of freckles. While his facial features remained the same, however, the face itself was notably thinner. All of Any's body was thinner, in fact, but he had put on a great deal of growth in the vertical plane - more than Beyond had managed. His weight simply hadn't kept up with his height or the lengthening of his limbs, making it appear as though he had lost a great deal of his extra poundage. It made the once-boy-now-teen look more serious than he once had, although he still retained his habit of grinning more than not.

Even if he was glaring daggers at the moment. "Yes, I'm ready to go." He sighed, adjusting the headphones hanging around his neck and their dangling wire. "You could have gone down by yourself; you didn't have to wait for me."

Beyond just shrugged at that, opting not to argue the point. Any must have read something more in his face than he intended to reveal, though, because his own expression suddenly became uncomfortable. Beyond avoided walking the halls alone anymore, and they both knew it. Any, despite many assurances that the reason for why that wasn't his fault, still felt responsible.

Any cleared his throat awkwardly and took hold of one of the smaller teen's shoulders, spinning him around and shoving him into walking a little ahead of him. "Come on," he said gruffly. "Your lollygagging will make us late."

The indignant protest of "_My_ lollygagging?" floated unheeded down the empty hallway.

...

The drive to the University hadn't taken very long, but it had been a little awkward. They rode with L, and for most of the journey he simply reiterated what both of the boys already knew regarding the rules they were to observe while at the school. Don't wear watches, they could gather and hold debris. No cell phones while in the lab, the same went for photo taking. If they felt they needed a moment then they were free to step out, but were required to be accompanied by at least one other person at all times. Absolutely no food or drink was allowed in the laboratory, if they were thirsty, there were fountains in the hall, if they were hungry they would just have to wait until…

Here Beyond had chuckled, making L pause and tilt his head at him quizzically. Light, shattered by trees spaced along the road, flickered rapidly over the detective's face, transforming him into an old, shuttering film. "Do you find something amusing, B?"

The younger reflection of the world renowned investigator grinned, and nudged Any, who had developed a distant look during L's lecture. "We-ell," he drawled out, "it seems like _you_ would have more trouble with some of those rules than _we_ would."

L looked blank until Beyond pointed at what exactly he was referring to, which happened to be a particularly large cookie that had just found its way to his mouth. He followed where Beyond was pointing, his overlarge ebony eyes crossing to take in the indicated confectionary. Any sniggered. L's habit of sweets and of smuggling candies everywhere he went was well known to those who knew him. On that score, at least, he would be the one put to the test by the guidelines in place.

In the interest of fairness, the two younger boys had made L leave his precious sugary snacks in the limo when they arrived at their destination. They even went so far as to have him turn out his pockets to thwart any attempt to sneak in smaller candies. Only six fell to the carpeted car floor when he did, which both boy found vaguely impressive.

Now they were being guided through the school by a youngish instructor with light, wavy hair and white lab coat, being told the rules of the laboratory _again_. Even L looked bored and a little put out by this point, but that might have been because of his complete lack of anything sweet to nibble on. He'd left his jean pockets turned out, and his bony shoulders were slumped further forward than usual.

It wasn't what Beyond had been expecting in way of a place dedicated solely to education. He had thought it would be something like the Wammy House, but on a larger scale, possibly more modern. While it was certainly larger, it was a far cry from familiar Wammy House. It was brighter, almost sterile feeling with the white walls and reflective linoleum floors, their footsteps echoing up and down the grid pattern halls. There was no art on the walls, save what pertained directly to a given subject or - occasionally - sport. Far more commonly seen were boards with schedules, agendas, new classes, most recent grade standings and the like tacked up. There were no students, as it was a weekend and they were able to leave when their work was done.

For all its outward sterility, however, what most struck Beyond was the atmosphere of the place. Even though it had an air of detachment, it felt more relaxed here than at the orphanage. Friendlier, if buildings could feel friendly with no humans to convey the impression through. Exactly how it was managing the feat was what Beyond was choosing to concentrate on rather than the very familiar droning of the instructor.

"… we have spare coats if anyone feels they will need them, but I doubt it will become necessary, as this isn't a full laboratory session. If you feel like really getting hands on, then I would suggest simply rolling up your sleeves. Everyone will be wearing disposable gloves the entire time they are inside. Any time anyone needs to touch anything other than the specimens, say a doorknob, a water fountain, your own clothing or skin, you need to take your gloves off first, and then put on a fresh pair when you get back…"

He was friendly as instructors went, although his current speech was obviously one he'd made many times before, so he rattled through it all in a coma-inducing monotone. His name was Floyd Thompson, (27, 4, 1, 6, 11, 54, 8), and had introduced himself as a graduated student who just never left. Beyond interpreted that as his being someone who enjoyed their subject in its pure form too much to try and apply it to something practical. He hoped that showed through later in his lecture.

"Is anyone here allergic to latex?" he asked. Receiving a series of silent headshakes, he opened a door and ushered them in. "Good, good. If you'll just hang your jackets there on the hooks, then, and come over here where you can wash your hands…"

The teens hung up their coats on the hooks, Beyond shivered slightly at the chill in the new room. It wasn't cold, but it was cooler than the halls they had just been walking. It wasn't until they had turned the corner and saw the dozen gurneys and their full body bags that Beyond realized they were already in the cadaver lab.

For the most part it was exactly like all the other classrooms they had spent the last fifteen minutes walking past. Large, open, ceiling high, white walls and linoleum floor, a few tall windows along the outside wall, and whiteboards drawn with various diagrams and formulae. Only here, instead of desks and seats waiting for their occupants, there were the metal railed and wheeled gurneys with their covered cadavers.

From the ceiling hung several shower heads on the ends of long hoses, each of which would spray a mixture of glycerin, ethyl alcohol and phenol to keep the gathered specimens from decaying. The windows were all shuttered, leaving the task of illumination to the banks of fluorescent lights. The whiteboards were each scrawled with diagrams depicting cross-sections, nerve pathways and mnemonic devices to remember the harder lists. On one wall close to the door were large metal sinks, boxes of different sized gloves, and a few waste bins, one of them red and a large biohazard symbol on one side.

A skeleton of middling height hung in one corner, watching the quartet shuffle in with empty, yellowing sockets and a grin of permanent posthumous mirth.

Beyond had felt no apprehension before coming. The idea of studying up close the anatomy they had studied only in books and theory, of touching tissue and feeling cold where there had once been warmth and life, hadn't elicited more than a blink from the red-eyed youth. Now they were in the room, though, with the faint smell reminiscent of mothballs tickling his nose, and the stark reality of the black body bags against sterile white walls, Beyond's limbs felt strangely heavy. Trepidation, like electricity, spiraled up his spine, making him to smother a shiver. He followed the instructor to find a spare lab coat quickly to cover his momentary lapse. Any trailed a little more slowly behind him.

After donning their coats and latex gloves, the four of them began to explore the lab and its occupants. Wheeling out one body after the other to examine them, the instructor did most of the talking with what sounded like more scripted but lively lecture, with L occasionally putting in an observation or additional detail. The point of Any and Beyond learning anatomy was how it would pertain to criminal cases, and while the University instructor was certainly knowledgeable, he wasn't conversant in the minutiae of a body's condition in murder investigations.

Despite Beyond's unexpected apprehension to see the bodies, there was no trouble for the first half-hour. But then, they were just looking at limbs, abdominal cavities and dissected backs, with whatever wasn't being studied covered by sheeting. According to both L and Floyd, what someone person visually attributed to one appearing human was a face, hands, and skin tone. Not skin color, but tone. The cadavers had no blood, therefore no tone, and resembled slabs of highly detailed clay more than humans. He had yet to touch any of them - though he still wore the gloves - but whenever one was manipulated, they moved with a heaviness and stiff resistance that no actor had even managed to duplicate or prop creator fabricate.

He was still worried about when the time would finally come when a face was revealed. Not only because it would make these lifeless lumps of flesh and bone more human, but because of what he _wouldn't_ see.

The name and numbers. They wouldn't be there. He knew they wouldn't be there. When life fled, it took the glowing script with it. Knowing that, Beyond still had some morbid fear that they would be waiting there.

Distracted as he was, Beyond was only giving passing attention, the rest being taken by the gray forms on their cold aluminum tables and his thoughts. He didn't notice that Any, who was still walking a pace behind him, hadn't said a word since entering the school, or that he had begun shivering on entering the lab, even with the long cotton coat covering him. If he had been paying attention to the older boy, he would have seen the growing paleness of his freckled complexion, the increasing tremors that had little to do with temperature.

During a slight lapse of lecture and exhibition, Any stared down at one of the specimens. It was an open chest cavity on what had once been a large, middle-aged male, the heart still in place to show the pathway of aortas. Staring at the dead organ, his voice was very far away when he asked his first question. "Where did they come from? … Who were they?"

The instructor and L, both engrossed in selecting the next body to pull out and study, looked up at the unusual question. Beyond looked over from a previous station curiously, recognizing something foreign in his friend's tone. If the elder males noticed it as well, they didn't show it. A brief glance from Floyd in L's direction and a quick nod from the detective was enough to elicit an explanation.

"All of our cadavers are donated," he said. "When someone wants to give their body for study on their death, they fill out the appropriate paperwork with our department. After the cadaver has reached it limit for study, it's cremated and sent back to the family. As for _who_ they are," he shifted slightly, as though this touched on some taboo, "that information is protected. Each of the specimens is referred to by a number. Once you come here, you effectively don't have a name."

Beyond smiled, "Just like us."

The comment went unheard except by L, who was standing the closest to the boy. He glanced back at his young ward thoughtfully out of the corner of charcoal eyes. Beyond didn't see it, his own attention back with the deceased not a foot from him. The dead truly had no names… He wondered if the anatomist would ever realize the truth of his statement.

Whether he would or not, Beyond would never know, but it was apparent that Floyd was uncomfortable. If it was the question, the leaden mood being projected by the one who asked it, the wide-eyed quiet of Beyond or the complete lack of help coming from L - the technical leader of the visiting students - was another mystery. "Why don't you boys come over here?" he asked brightly. "We'll take a look at some of the more delicate sensory organs."

The two orphans came to where the anatomy instructor stood, by the head of one of the gurneys. Beyond felt himself start to tremble ever so slightly internally. Here was where his misgivings would either be realized or fall to pieces, when a face would finally be revealed to his cursed eyes. He knew there would be no name, no hovering string of numbers depicting the person's day of realized mortality. They had already crossed that line, met the Reaper and left their casing of flesh behind… but it didn't stop his legs from shaking a little as he approached the gurney, disguised eyes locked onto the small curve of plastic at the end of the rolling table.

Floyd continued on with his lecturing, rambling amiably now he'd found his flow again. Beyond didn't hear more than a dozen words in it. He knew the material already, and his attention was elsewhere. Then-

The outer bag was being unzipped, the interlocking teeth of the zipper too loud in the echoing laboratory. The black bagging was pulled aside, and then the second layer of clear plastic. All that was left between the lifeless face and the stares of the living was the cotton sheeting. It was damp, as they all were, and slightly stained from a combination of embalming chemicals and slowly degrading organic materials. It was wrinkled, gathered and collapsed around the hidden skull, the excess of fabric making the one underneath seem much smaller, shrunken and weak.

Gloved, blue fingers took hold of the edges of the sheet and drew it back with seemingly deliberate, sadistic slowness…

And stopped. Floyd looked up at an unusual sound that had just begun to make itself heard to everyone, alarm lighting in his face.

Any was hyperventilating.

Beyond stared at his friend, who had an expression hovering somewhere between confusion and panic, dumbfounded. The instructor wasn't caught as flatfooted as he was. He got around to Any's side of the gurney quickly without appearing to rush. "Alright, boy," he said calmly, catching him gently and firmly under the elbows. Any's eyes were becoming glazed with startling speed, and it was obvious that the instructor was almost immediately supporting the boy's weight.

The man remained calm, however, his voice even as he began to walk the wilting Any to the door. "Easy, slowly now. We'll just take a step outside, get our bearings, okay? Come on, this way, just breathe. Sir, if you wouldn't mind opening the door?" This last was directed at L, who was already shuffling his way over to clear the path for the anatomist and the still hyperventilating Any. All three of them filed out the door, which swung shut again behind them on its own.

Leaving Beyond alone in a room full of excavated death.

The teen looked after his party, dazed, wondering why Any had such a violent reaction. He'd never confided any squeamishness or uneasiness over visiting the cadaver lab, and Beyond had not thought him to be the type to be bothered by it. Had he been hiding his fear, or had it taken him as much by surprise as the rest of them? Now that he was in the grip of that fear, would he be alright?

Belatedly, Beyond moved to follow the trio out into the hallway, his own temporary paralysis broken. He should be close by his friend.

But he stopped again after only a few steps. He was alone in the cadaver lab, which certainly wasn't allowed in the normal procedure of things. Only the hasty exit and distraction of Any's panic made it possible for such a breach to be overlooked. It wouldn't happen a second time, even if they came back for another field trip. Did he want to just give up such an opportunity?

For a minute Beyond wavered, unsure whether to follow the group out or to stay in the lab. When he decided, it was in favor of remaining with the bodies.

He walked up close to the gurney, his worn sneakers still uttering faint echoes through the stark room with their soft soles. The ever-present, permeating scent of mothballs grew stronger as he approached the freshly uncovered specimen. Fluorescent lights cast harsh and unforgiving shadows across the sheeting where cloth dipped and gathered, making it look as though a skeleton dressed in damp winding cloth awaited Beyond's approach. The boy shivered from chill and an overactive imagination, distractedly pulling the edges of his gloves up a little further.

Forcing his fingers to be steady, he took hold of the sheeting the same way the absent anatomist had done, and slowly drew back the damp covering.

Short, thinning blond hair was revealed first, sparsely covering a very rounded dome of the calvaria, skin the color of ancient, graying parchment. The cranium bulged forward to a broad forehead and severe brow ridges adorned with grizzled caterpillar brows. At the sides, the skull sunk it to startlingly deep temporal fossas, thick ears peeking out to hear nothing save a boy's attempt to steady his breathing. The cliff-like supraobrital margin fell away and inward toward the eye orbits, their resident organs of sight sunken far and covered with thin, thin lids. Beyond couldn't help but notice that the lids still possessed most of their lashes, the delicate strands resting against lifeless cheeks in a simile of slumber.

Nor could he help but notice the clean incision running straight down the center of the face, dividing it into equal left and right portions. The skin was shifted slightly on the left side, revealing that it was no longer attached to the flesh beneath and could be pulled away like a book cover to read the structures below. There was a slight Picasso effect to one half of a face being misaligned from the other half.

Beyond swallowed. He nearly had half of the face uncovered, which would be the point when the floating label would flare to life. _Except,_ Beyond though forcefully, _this one won't._

The boy considered ripping back the sheet and getting it over with quickly. Proceeding as he was only harped along his nerves and weakened his resolve. He discarded the idea, though. Cadavers were deceptively fragile, and being rough with the covering might damage it. Not to mention the risk of flinging some of the gathered fluid in the bag with a violent jerk of the sheeting.

Besides… it would have been disrespectful.

He compromised by shutting his eyes while slowly pulling away the sheet. When his fingers met resistance at the shoulders and torso, he let go. Taking a deep breath, Beyond snapped open his demonic eyes, searching for an invisible impossibility.

Nothing.

Beyond sighed, more relieved than he would probably ever admit to. There was nothing there, there was no secret life to be revealed by Beyond's supernatural sight. What lay before him now was only so much dried out meat, spark of life and humanity long departed.

Now his unreasonable fears were dealt with, Beyond felt himself relaxing, and taking a genuine interest in the specimens, which had been obstructed before with his discomfort. Breathing shallowly to deal with the stronger smell of phenol and alcohol, he leaned closer to what proved to be a male cadaver. Ages were difficult to guess on corpses, but whoever this one had been, he had lived well past middle-age. The heavy bone structure of his brow was common throughout his face, with a prow-like nose, broad cheekbones and a heavy lantern jaw. In life he would have been dominating with expression alone.

Carefully, Beyond lifted away half the man's face the same way he'd done the sheet.

What lay beneath the skin made Beyond stare anew, captivated. On other bodies skin had been pulled away to leave subcutaneous structures, musculature, and deeper features accessible for study, but none yet could compare with the delicate intricacy here. Whoever had preformed this dissection had done a masterful job of revealing what was needed without disturbing their placement. Skin still covered the eye, lips and ear; but for the rest, muscle, the shiny silver-skin of connective tissue, thick, collapsed arteries and branching veins and the creeping root pattern of nerves was plainly laid out for Beyond's hungry gaze.

The teen drank it in, taken aback both at the skill of the anatomist who had worked this specimen and at the complex map of interconnected parts before him. He studied anatomy at the House, but books, however detailed, didn't do reality justice. He knew what he was seeing well enough - the round muscle around the eye was _orbicularis oculi_, the twisting red rope right in front of the ear was the superficial temporal artery, the spongy mass just below that was the parotid salivary gland, the white web splaying out from behind the ear the facial nerve and its numerous, gradually thinning branches… But to see it, and to touch it… Beyond ran a blue fingertip along a small tendril of nerve with feather light gentleness. It felt like exceedingly thin satin cord.

After a few minutes of staring, Beyond finally replaced the dead man's face, and then re-covered him with the drape. It wasn't to hide him from view, but to keep him exposed to the air as little as possible. He stood back and looked over the gathered examples of physical humanity around him.

It was incredible to consider, he reflected, that these organic cages of spider web thin protein strands and neuron-relays were what housed an awareness, a consciousness that was an individual. And the true beauty of it was far too small to see, even with _his_ eyes. It was in the microscopic actin and myosin molecules that interlocked with - literally - a thought, stimulated by electrical impulse and calcium catalysts to result in muscular contraction and movement. It was in the Golgi tendon organs, flower spray nerves, and spindle cells forever monitoring the tension and degree of angle in the joints, feeding the brain millions of bits of information a second. It was the brain itself, the center of one's thoughts, memories, dreams, their very identity. Everything they had ever been or aspired to become… their entire world encapsulated in a three pound mass of neural tissue.

Feeling a stare on him, Beyond looked towards what counted as the classroom of the laboratory; a corner where a couple of whiteboards and shelves lined the walls and a long table lined with chairs stood waiting. There also stood the skeleton, watching him examine his fleshier companions without comment, but a knowing grin. Beyond ignored him as he walked past, intending to examine the containers on the shelves. He also spotted what looked like a few mnemonics for remembering the cranial nerves on a whiteboard. There were at least six different ones. Beyond blushed at the last two.

For all its intricacy, the body was just a machine, a vehicle for what a person really was. Whether that was simply the mind, the amorphous possibility known as a soul, or a cloud of waste electrostatic generated by metabolic brain function that somehow developed a sense of identity, there was _something_ there. Something that those labels anchored themselves to, and which fled when the thread of mortality was cut.

The containers on the shelves were all plastic, sealed and labeled. They all held the assorted parts that composed the human machine; limbs, organs, transverse section cuts and the like. Beyond wasn't quite willing to earn an admonishment by prying them open on his own, but not all of the containers were opaque. A few were transparent enough to allow him to see inside them. Sometimes what was inside stared back more effectively than the frame of yellowing bones in the corner.

One such example didn't come from a plastic container, but a small glass display case. It was a well-done piece, either a senior's work or an instructor. Suspended inside the glass by clear plastic pedestals was a pair of eyes, complete with their nerves and a portion of brain, arranged just as they would be _in situ_. Beyond looked closely at the sightless orbs, at the ring of color encircling each blind pupil. They were blue.

For a moment, he wished he could extract his own garnet eyes and exchange them for the set of sapphires floating within their glass enclosure. It would be a chance to see the world through a cool veil of cobalt instead of a mist of crimson.

When L came returned to the lab, Beyond was still attempting to stare down the blind blues in the display case. So absorbed was the boy that he didn't hear the door close behind the detective, nor the muffled scuff of his shoes across the linoleum. It wasn't until L was right behind him that his protégé even noticed that he wasn't alone in the room. L was mildly surprised that his little reflection didn't start visibly at the sudden presence at his elbow, but just shifted his unblinking gaze from the eyes encased in glass to the detective.

He was surprised again at what the boy chose to say by way of greeting.

"They're just… empty," he said, his voice sounding terribly young. "There's nothing to them."

L briefly studied the ocular display, and then the room in general. It was more to gain a small measure of time than to refresh his memory of the lab. It was a mite disconcerting to hear his second-best speak as a child half his age might. He finally decided to answer with a plain, unadorned, "Yes."

The stare affixed to the detective changed subtly. "Then," he said, his tone a little sharper, "what do you think it is that makes the living so special?"

The detective paused, wondering what it was that had gotten B's train of thought to follow that particular pattern. It wasn't the strain of logic that was encouraged at the orphanage, and it certainly wasn't the purpose of coming to the cadaver lab. Philosophical spirituality did little to help a detective in his work.

After a minute or so of consideration, L came to stand beside the smaller version of himself. He ignored the fact that the boy was now directing that unblinking stare on _him_. "I believe," he said slowly, aware that the question hadn't been as childish as it might appear, "without dipping into the uncertain waters of theology, the best answer to that would be the person themselves. What we see here," he waved a hand to take in the room, "these are merely components. As you said: they're empty. In life, it's one's motivations, drives, and their actions that impart individuality. That would be their inherent 'specialness'."

Beyond stared blankly, digesting the different levels of what L had said. He hadn't said it was a soul, or the sanctity of life that made someone better than a slab of meat, or even everyone's potential to do great good. He'd just said one's individuality, without specifying whether one's individual traits put them on the lighter side of morals or the darker. That was… unexpected.

"The person themselves," he repeated in a mutter, gaze slipping back to the disembodied eyes. "Their deeds…"

The elder man shrugged his shoulders. "Life itself, if you like," he added, as though it were minor. "It's easy to take life away, not quite so easy to give it back."

Beyond nodded absently. He knew that well enough. "How's Any?" he asked, rather than continue the current thread. "Is he coming back in?"

A head of thick black locks wove lazily from side to side. "No, he won't. He's fine physically, but he remains quite adamant that he will not come back into the lab." It was hard to tell, but the young man's tone might have held a touch of displeasure in its last statement.

Beyond frowned. That didn't sound like Any. "That's a shame," he said vaguely, still examining the display minutely. "This seems like something he would normally take a real liking to."

A smile pulled at the corners of L's pouting mouth as he watched the younger boy lean in almost imperceptibly to see as much of the delicate exhibit as possible. "You certainly seem to have found a kind of passion for anatomy," he commented with amusement. "Have you ever considered the path of a doctor?"

Beyond turned a quizzical eye on his mentor, startled by the suggestion. When the detective declined to elaborate any further, Beyond thought about it for a grand total of twelve seconds. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I'd rather fight against something I can win against."

"You can't win against disease?"

"Death," Beyond corrected. "Doctors are always fighting death, and they never win. Not in the long run."

"Perhaps not permanently," L conceded. "But death can be postponed, delayed, and the overall quality of a person's life improved. And it would mean a much more in-depth study of anatomy, physiology, and a slew of others to be truly proficient."

Beyond tried to imagine himself in the medical field, a doctor working to save the lives of patients. Not a general practitioner, but a specialist of some kind, neurology or endocrinology. He imagined consulting with patients to report and advise them of their condition… and seeing the numbers hovering above them, scorning his futile attempts to prolong any life. How could he ever face a patient when he would know at a glance if his effort was even worth it or not?

He shook his head again. "If that's all I could fight for," he said quietly, "I'd rather do it your way."

L's smile widened ever so slightly, unnoticeably unless you were watching for it, and he accepted Beyond's reasoning.

They only stayed in the lab a few minutes longer, which disappointed Beyond somewhat, but with Any waiting and unwilling to participate any further, it was the more reasonable course of action. When they left, the boy was in fairly high spirits, ready to dive back into his studies at the House.

After a meal, he decided. For some reason he felt hungry as they left the University behind.

...

_**A/N2:**__ For anyone who is curious, yes, I have been to a cadaver lab myself. In fact I used to teach skeletal and muscular anatomy to prospective massage therapists and got to know a few pure anatomists. They are a kooky bunch; if you ever get the chance - and can stand the nerd-speak - try chatting with one. The very last mention of B's being hungry after leaving is both a little nod towards the interpretation that Beyond Birthday is a cannibal, (no, I'm not taking him that way), and is a real response some people have to cad labs. I've seen it a few times._

_All of the details of the cadaver lab as true as my memory and a little brushing up with research allows, with two exceptions. One; no way would a student of 14 be left alone in the lab by himself. It's doubtful that boys their age would be allowed in the lab at all, but I figure the title of L will bring about some leeway. Two; Any's reaction is very, very extreme. I've never even heard of anyone having so violent a response to viewing cadavers in a studious setting. The worst I've seen is an emotional release (tears), and the worst I've heard of was being physically ill, but they were sick already and it was a reaction to the chemical smell as anything else. For the most part, visiting a cadaver lab is anticlimactic._

_To anyone who's wondering why I chose to show a cadaver lab at all, it wasn't for the "gross factor" involved. In a lot of Beyond Birthday fics I've read, I've noticed a theme of B having an almost obsessive fascination with death and/or blood. While I agree that the effect his eyes would have on his psyche would lead to something like that, I wanted to show a slightly different interpretation. While he's observing death and thinks about it a great deal, here he's actually considering the nature of life and what binds a person to their bodies. Even in taking someone apart, it's the wonder that such a complex organism could work smoothly and host a person's individuality or soul that takes precedence. It seems a natural enough thought process for someone who is forced to observe the people around him dying on a daily basis, but not one that I've seen much._

_Oh, and the anatomist's name - Floyd Thompson - is a reference to the authors of the __Manual of Structural Kinesiology__, which has a great deal of anatomy involved, and was my bible in school. ^^_

_**Terms used in the fic**__ (since there's a lot)__**:**_

_Calvaria:__ The 'skullcap'._

_Temporal fossa:__ When you feel your own temples, the little indentation is the temporal fossa._

_Supraorbital margin:__ 'Supra' means 'above' and 'orbital' refers to eyes or eye sockets. The supraobrital margin is the ridge just above the eyes and what helps for the eye socket._

_Lantern jaw:__ A 90° or nearly 90° angle at the back of one's jaw. Think of Lurch from the __Addams Family__._

_Subcutaneous:__ Under the skin._

_Mnemonic:__ A device to help memorize information, mostly lists. Taking the first letter of each word, use those to create a phrase that's easier to remember. College mnemonics, and especially those for anatomy, are infamously dirty. :3_

'_In situ':__ Basically means 'as it would be found normally'._

_**Thank you again, everybody, for reading! Chapter 9 is already in the works, so shouldn't take quite as long to appear!**_


	9. Goodbye

**_A/N:_**_ Alrighty, I have a good excuse why this chapter took so long. My computer broke down **again** in the space of a couple of months. My desktop did, anyway. Thankfully my laptop is still alright, and that's where all my doc files are kept (and backups on thumb drives) but it's still thrown a monkey wrench into the schedule. So, we may not get to chapter ten before the con, but I am working on it right now, and if it takes longer to show up hopefully it will just mean better quality. ;D_

_Exciting news, though. We are at 51+ K words, which according to the National Novel Writing Month guidelines counts as an official novel, albeit short. Yay! We're a frigging novel! A fanfiction back story to a spin-off back story to a manga and anime has reached a somewhat epic literary milestone. ^/^ Happy face. By the same token it means my marathoner energy is seriously starting to putter out. Cookies and cake as incentive welcomed and encouraged. ;D_

**_Betas:_**_ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

**_Music:_** Psychobabble _by Frou Frou; _In the End _by Linkin Park;_ Saveoursoulissa _by Michael Nyman & Damon Albarn (_Ravenous _soundtrack)._

**_Warning:_**_ Rated 'M' for graphic and disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both Death Note and Death Note: Another Note._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ Death Note and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. Death Note: Another Note and related characters © NISIOISIN._

...

What's My Name?

Part Nine, "Goodbye"

Raven Ehtar

...

_"… If you can't help them, at least don't hurt them."  
~ Dalai Lama ~_

_...  
_

_It's just a dream, it's the nightmare again. Just calm down…_

It's hard to remain calm when you're being choked to death, even in dreams.

He didn't know where this was supposed to be; and really, it didn't make any difference. This was an in-between place of dreams and nightmares, with no solid landscape, only dark, nebulous shapes that lurked along the edges of view. If you tried to focus on anything, your target would boil away to nothing, only to reappear again in the periphery.

The background was inconsequential. What mattered here was the deceased figure that stood before him, totally eviscerated of its moisture, breathing soft, cadaverous breath across his face. It was the eyes of shadowed death staring back into his that held his attention, the whiteness of bone that sometimes peeked through the skin hanging from the body in patches and folds. What mattered were the hands, the fingers that somehow retained their strength after death that curled around his throat with the same inflexibility of iron. The boy clawed at them, as he always did in his nightmare, but only succeeded in tearing away strips of rotting flesh, some of the sickened tissue gathering under his nails like soil.

The specter only smiled at him with the remnants of what might have once been a pouting mouth, a mat of tangled hair falling forward to mask the blackened, empty eye sockets. It didn't matter how much he struggled, there would be no escaping from this monster.

But the undead thing didn't kill him right away. It didn't even start to kill him slowly. No, this was a nightmare where he would be given a chance to save himself. With a voice that was familiar but warped and roughened as it scarped over decayed vocal cords, the dead creature would ask him questions, washing him with the scent of putrid flesh. These questions he had to answer, and depending on the accuracy of the reply, one of two things would happen:

For every question answered correctly, some part of the monster that was choking him would heal, a piece of flesh would knit back into its framework or a dislocated joint would snap sickeningly back into place. It never showed any emotion, even so far as it was able to with only half of a face, and the fingers at his throat remained still, neither tightening or loosening. For each question answered wrong, however, the jointed steel rods that masqueraded as fingers would tighten ever so slightly, cutting off a little more air and raising his panic.

_It's just a dream, it's just a dream…_

The questions he was asked ranged in difficulty, from ludicrously simple to practically requiring a computer to solve. Despite that, he should have been able to answer the majority of them correctly. But this was a nightmare, and the rules of the waking world didn't apply. There were an equal number of hits and misses, with the kind of questions answered correctly or incorrectly being completely random. He might get one about applied physics on astral bodies correct when he knew next to nothing on the subject of astronomy, and then fail in addition. There was no rhyme or reason to it all, save the rule of right = regeneration, wrong = strangulation.

Fighting to get as many of them right as possible had no effect on the ratio of right to wrong. His air was slowly and inexorably cut off until he was gasping in tiny straw amounts, and the monster before him gradually became someone recognizable. Someone he knew.

The skin melted and melded together until it was whole and smooth, tone pale and limbs willow-slim. The tattered rags re-formed to a pair of worn blue jeans and a plain white shirt. The matted thatch atop the once bare skull filled out into a glossy mess of blue-black strands. The face, still half-hidden, regained its healthy flesh, the cheeks rounding slightly, the mouth taking a definite pout, and the barest edge of dark circles showing from beneath feathery bangs.

The renewed specter looked up at its slowly dying captive with eyes the color of gentle murder.

Any stared at Beyond, his world going gray around the edges for want of oxygen, Beyond smiling gently as he refused to loosen his grip. It was B, Beyond who was killing him a little with each wrong reply, and who was slowly coming back to life with each correct one. As he knew it would be, as it always was in this dream.

Any struggled harder to free himself, to no avail. He only succeeded in choking himself a little more jerking against the immovable fingers at his throat. This was a recurring nightmare with only a small bit in leeway for variation. That was coming soon, and Any dreaded it. Beyond held on, expressionless save his mild grin.

Finally they had reached that point in the questions where there could only be one more. One more answer, either right or wrong, would complete the process started. Beyond would finish his reanimation, or Any would die.

"Are you my friend?"

Any froze. It was such a simple, childish question, but it literally made the world around him stop for an instant. The freckled teen knew what would happen when he answered that innocent question. Here was where the nightmare allowed for variation, for choice in his actions. He could answer truthfully to this last question, or lie. Even with that choice, it didn't matter; either way Any would lose. In a way, Beyond would as well.

The red-eyed boy waited patiently for his struggling friend. The older boy swallowed with difficulty around Beyond's thumbs. The digits were pressing uncomfortably into his still developing Adam's apple, straining the cartilage that protected his trachea and making his quick pulse feel like hammer blows.

The dream wouldn't continue, and he wouldn't wake up until the question had been answered. He had tried that before, only to stay in a suffocating dream state for what felt like half a day before finally giving up and answering. He had to give Beyond some kind of answer if he wanted to wake. The choice now was what did he say this time?

Truth, which was 'right', or lie, which was 'wrong'?

Compassion or cowardice?

Death, or…

Any swallowed again, Beyond waited.

Tonight, it was the cowardice that won out.

"No."

There was no response at first, only silence as the single instant of time stretched and distorted beyond its bounds. Then the hands fell away from Any's throat, the last few unhealthy patches of flesh healing completely to leave a whole and wholly confounded boy standing alone. Strangely, Any felt no need to drag bucketfuls of oxygen into his starved system now his airway was clear. His breath was taken away far more effectively as he watched dawning comprehension in blood-red orbs. Those vermillion eyes filled with so much betrayal, so much pain, it physically hurt Any to look at them.

It was the end of one nightmare and the beginning of another. Any was alive, and Beyond was whole… both were far from jubilant.

...

Any, the most promising heir-in-training among dozens of highly intelligent candidates to the title of World's Greatest Detective. He was known to those monitoring his progress in the program as unusually bright, driven, and creative, with high energy and sprawling interests that would prove very useful if he could also learn to apply focus and discernment. To his peers he was the one to aim for, the highest ranked and highest skilled, while still keeping his youthful enthusiasm. To all he was known for his easygoing nature and steadiness. It was hard to rattle the teen, he would shrug off any adversity and continue along his planned route.

He woke from a fitful sleep several hours before dawn with a small scream, covered in sweat. The afterimage of accusatory garnets stared at him out of the darkness.

The boy breathed slowly, taking in long, steadying breaths of close, stuffy air, his throat feeling tight and constricted. He rubbed absently at his throat, touched his face to reassure himself that all was well. His skin was clammy and damp, and oddly numb to the touch, but with no trace of finger impressions around his voice box. He wasn't worried that his waking yelp would have disturbed anyone else; the most likely one to hear him was his next door neighbor, and that happened to be the newest 'C', the deaf boy.

He ran shaking fingers through damp hair, sighing into the pitch dark of his room. How many times had he had that damned nightmare, he wondered? A few dozen, a hundred, more? He'd lost count somewhere. Maybe it would be easier to count by how long he had been having the dream… how many years was it now?

Not ready to attempt going back to sleep, he swung his feet onto the floor, feeling more himself with solid ground under his soles. The water on his bedside table was warm and tasted old, but it was something to wet his dry throat. He drained the glass in one go, coughing a little as the last few drops tried to choke him, wiping at his mouth. For a minute he just rested, letting his pulse slow to a normal pace, elbows on knees, head bowed. He was still tired, he'd not gone to sleep until late and had woken only a few hours later, but now he was completely awake. Even without the threat of dipping straight back into the dream, trying to fall back asleep now would be futile.

He stood, sleep heavy legs complaining but supporting his weight. Walking assuredly in the familiar confines of his room even in the deep gloom, he found his desk, just barely able to make out the papers and their scrawled problems. It had been the last thing he had worked on for the night before trying to sleep. Picking up a pen, he scribbled a few words, then scratched them out again immediately. Every page was covered in such false starts.

_"Are you my friend?"_

The drawn problems filled Any's darkness adjusted vision, filled his conscious thought to crowd out all others. It was a series of formulae that had been giving him trouble for weeks, making him practically tear his hair out in frustration. He _had_ to figure them out, or he would decline in his academic standing more than he already was.

_"Are you my friend?"_

_"No."_

He couldn't ask for help, either, not even from the teachers. The top student did not ask for help from anyone. It would suggest weakness, uncertainty, and he couldn't afford any amount of uncertainty to show. Another quick note, another violent crossing out an instant later.

He was the highest ranked in the Wammy House, the most likely to succeed L, the World's Greatest. Being number one here made him number two for the world. Second ranked on the planet - the fucking _planet_ - didn't need assistance from those who were, by definition, inferior to him. Did a world-class builder ask for advice from a weekend do-it-yourselfer? Did a genius solicit opinions from students? Did the world's greatest potential need support? Friendship?

No, no, and no.

_"No."_

Pen clattered to the desk, the fingers that held it gone limp and listless. Any leaned forward, once again resting the weighty burden of his head into his hands. The dream would not leave him. He'd lived it so many times, knew its meaning, its portent, but still it hung in the air around him, clinging to his psyche, demanding acknowledgement.

A wrong answer he dies. A right answer Beyond lives.

It was easy to interpret. Anyone familiar with the workings of the Wammy House would understand the correlation between failure and death. To fail in the mission to succeed L would be almost as bad as death to the wards of Wammy House. Children who came from the very dregs of society, who knew the very real pain and terror of having no ties, no roots… the threat of returning to that kind of life was enough to set a blaze in every orphan's heart.

A right answer and Beyond lived… To understand that, one would have to be aware of Any's most hidden motives. On its face, and following the previous connection that success equaled life, _Any_ answering correctly would not mean a return to life for Beyond. Logically, something good for Any in that sense could only hurt Beyond. Why then was his success the same as rejuvenation for the red-eyed orphan?

If one knew all the facts, the answer was simple: If Any succeeded in the mission on his own, then he didn't have to eradicate Beyond.

The best didn't need friends, only advantageous connections. The top ranked didn't require companionship, just leverage. The whole reason he had gotten close to Beyond was to gain that advantage, to be in the perfect position to make the boy stumble if and when the time came.

Any pinched the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to alleviate the headache behind his eyes. How long had he had this pressure in his head? Weeks or months? Trying to remember a time when his head didn't hurt, memories unraveled behind his lids, taking him back years. Back to before something called 'the Wammy House' even existed.

Before the aged gentleman Quillish Wammy and his remarkable ward L had taken interest in a certain Winchester orphanage, it had been as many other homes for the homeless. A halfway place for those waiting and praying for somewhere they could belong. There was no greater focus in their lives than the vague hope that a nice couple searching for surrogate children would take a liking to you. There were studies, but they were general and held no purpose beyond teaching the basics. Their fates were completely outside their control. Nothing they did would affect it or give them promise of a brighter future. Decisions such as that were left to the adults, who were not as invested in the lives of their charges as might be hoped.

Over the years, Any had heard enough bits and pieces of Beyond's life in that same system to develop a fairly rounded picture. It was sad, but not unexpected for children in their position. Children were always unnecessarily hard on their peers. The countless cases of school bullying and persecution were evidence enough of that. In places like this, it was only worse. Powerlessness generates frustration and despair, and such emotions needed to be vented. The most available outlet for a child was on one's peers, and in an orphanage, there was nowhere to escape to relative safety.

Having red eyes wasn't the only thing that could make someone a target.

A boy who was overweight naturally became one; when he was also far and away the most intelligent, only made it that much worse. Any became severely withdrawn and solitary, which made it easier for the others to get to him.

He wondered sometimes if the adults then had known how often he had been beaten for his oddity, or if they had even cared if they had.

Then… then hope had come to hell.

Years of enduring, of living in a state of acceptance of his circumstances, of working and excelling in his studies because there was no other distraction from the every day, and then being punished for it, of never hoping for more improvement than the day he reached an age he could leave on his own feet. And then an aged man with a gentle face took him aside and gave him something he'd never had before: a reason to live.

The orphanage, the old gentleman had told him, would be becoming a kind of training facility for promising children. They would be preparing themselves mentally, emotionally, and even physically for one of the most worthy professions as could be found. Likely candidates would be brought in from all over the world as they were discovered, and those who were already living here moved to more suitable facilities.

Except for Any, then known as Anwyl. He, out of the entire pre-existing population of the orphanage, would stay.

To a young Anwyl, it was a revelation, a new life being offered to him. Not only because his cabal of tormentors would be leaving and himself remaining, but from what the gentleman had said, he could finally have some measure of control over his fate.

He would not be dependent on the whims of prospective parents, who in any case would likely prefer a young, placid child to a jaded, overly-intelligent boy already edging into his teens. No, _he_ was the one in control of what became of his future under the new scheme. Not everything came down to Anwyl, of course, but his actions and performance in the new program would dictate the majority. And he was sure he could do whatever it took to not just meet the Wammy House's expectations, but exceed them. It was an opportunity for a life of more than listless hopelessness and pain, and he had grabbed it with both hands and dug in his heels. No one would shake him from it.

He took the name Any, a tribute to his new benefactors, the simple removal of the 'L' and 'W' from his true name, and set to work on his new life.

A pair of headphones settled comfortably over Any's ears, and the gentle notes of Beethoven's "Moonlight" trickled over his nerves, soothing him.

He had thrown himself into the new program with an enthusiasm that shocked those in charge, devouring every subject presented to him and demanding more to satisfy a suddenly whetted and voracious appetite for knowledge. Sciences, arts, logic puzzles, creative paradoxes, mathematics, sociology, psychology, he plowed through it all with unprecedented accuracy, and still asked for more. Roger, the new administrator and Quillish Wammy were both delighted, and gave him whatever he wanted, convinced that their first aspirant would also be the most promising they would ever get. Any certainly intended to do his best to keep it that way.

But only a fool goes into battle with only one weapon. There was still the possibility that, no matter how hard he worked, he could be surpassed, stepped over, forgotten. With candidates coming from all over the world, the possibility was a very real one. The future so temptingly offered to him could still be snatched away…

… Unless he did something to prevent it.

He was still in control, his fate was still his own playing piece, he just had to secure some insurance.

He was 'A', the first one in the Wammy House program. The first threat to him would be 'B', the second. His first piece of competition could also be his first piece safeguard, if he played his part well enough. That one would be his first priority, if or until any subsequent additions proved themselves too dangerous to be ignored.

B came, and it was ridiculously easy to become his friend. A freak with red eyes, he was even more solitary and withdrawn than Anwyl had ever been. Adopting an attitude of sympathetic understanding and persistent friendliness had been enough to win him over. He was so inexperienced with social interaction, was so used to the responses the color of his eyes generated, that any disgust or discomfort Any accidentally let slip was either ignored or overlooked. His quiet desperation for companionship was Any's greatest ally, his starvation for interaction his most useful tool.

Keeping him from forming similar attachments to any other children had proved to be the greater challenge.

As more orphans for the program were brought in, it quickly became apparent that B was the only one he had to worry about usurping his position. He could focus entirely on the red-eyed monstrosity, which simplified his task. B had to trust him completely, had to depend only on Any for all sources of companionship and support. For that to be possible, Any had to be his only friend.

At first it had been as simple as monopolizing all of B's spare time. He didn't seek out others in his quiet moments, preferring instead to remain on his own. That eased Any's burden somewhat, but he was still careful to always be the only one to spend private time with the younger boy. It made him gradually more accepting of Any, and unconsciously dependent on him.

Eventually, though, Any had to actively discourage others from approaching B. Even with how quiet and reserved he was, and being the second in line, other children were still willing to approach him, to try and spring up a friendship with him. If Any hadn't acted as a buffer, turning back all such attempts, they might have succeeded. The easiest way to deter the would-be companions would have been to reveal B's little secret; he doubted anyone would be quite so willing to buddy up to a red-eyed mutant. But doing that would only backfire, he knew. B couldn't have any friends other than him, no one to turn to for comfort or advice except Any.

It wasn't childish jealousy, but tactics. If B could turn to a half dozen close companions, then the sway Any held over him would be lessened accordingly.

Because B was Any's insurance, his guarantee that he wouldn't descend back into the hell that had once been life. Any's backup plan was, should B ever make good on his potential and threaten Any's position, he would use his trust in Any to topple him down. If it was possible, it would be done subtly enough that bonds wouldn't be entirely dissolved, but the situation would dictate the degree of betrayal needed. If he had to completely break the red-eyed boy, then his own future was worth it.

Beethoven's masterpiece sonata was slammed down into the failed attempts to solve abstract mathematical equations.

That was the plan, and now was looking to be the proper time to finally use it, when Any's forward momentum was beginning to falter and Beyond was speeding along as well as ever. Now was when he should use his leverage on the second boy to knock him back and protect his own position.

Except… something had gone wrong.

There was something unexpected in the equation, something unforeseen in the formula that made it impossible to carry out his oh so carefully laid plans. Now was the time, more than the time to start sowing the seeds of doubt and confusion that would make Beyond stumble and fall. He was getting too close, his scores and aptitude tests too high, while Any… He wasn't actually failing, not yet, but it was taking more and more effort just to stay in the same place. Soon, he _would_ falter.

Except…

… except visions of Beyond, curled up under a tree, soaked to the bone with freezing rain, blue to the lips and joints oozing blood rose up in his memory, clear and sharp as ice crystals.

The weeks after finding him like that, when the boy refused to leave him room, even after he'd been allowed to, remained fresh in Any's mind. How he would sometimes start at small noises or sudden movements; how he would stick close to Any's side, even now, depending on him for protection…

If Any had allowed him to have friends, the… events of that day might never have happened. Beyond might not need to hide scars now, given to him by other children jealous of his rank.

Just as Any was jealous.

The right answer and Beyond could live… but then he would know everything.

Any couldn't do it. He couldn't hurt the boy who had suffered as much- more than he had. It wasn't right, and Beyond… he'd become more than insurance. He'd become Any's friend in truth, not just in name. Even if Any couldn't really be called Beyond's friend.

But he'd hit the wall as far as how much he could do for himself. If something didn't change soon, then…

Any stood abruptly, sending his chair clattering to the floor and made his way to the door. It had been a long time since he'd snuck a look at the official Wammy House computer files, now seemed be a good time to see if security measures had been improved or if his basic hacking skills were still sufficient. He needed to know exactly where he stood, how much time he had to save himself.

He closed the door softly and walked silently into shadow.

...

When Beyond woke, it was just after dawn, and it was with the sense that something was wrong. What it was eluded him, but as soon as he opened his eyes, a kind of foreboding settled over him like a shroud. A cursory glance revealed nothing immediately out of place in his immaculately kept room, and no matter how much he searched his memory, there was nothing scheduled that would cause the stubborn, mysterious feeling of unease.

He tried to shake it off as he went through his morning routine, preparing for a full day of classes, but it clung to him stubbornly. Unable to get rid of it, Beyond determined to ignore it as best he could.

Leaving his room to find Any and head downstairs together for breakfast, he did notice one thing he had missed in the first few bleary-eyed minutes of waking up. It wasn't anything out of place so much as something not meant to be there. Very neatly stacked on his desk were several volumes of manga. They had to be Any's. His obsessive hobby with comic books had recently led him into Japan's more compact counterparts, and there was no one else who would sneak into Beyond's room in the middle of the night to leave them.

Come to think of it, why would _Any_ sneak in to leave them when they saw each other every day anyway? Leaving the books untouched, Beyond decided that would be the first thing he asked the older boy when he saw him.

When he knocked on the heavy paneled door there was no reply from inside. Beyond frowned; Any wasn't a heavy sleeper. Most days it was Any knocking on Beyond's door and hurrying him through the morning. This morning had been odd in that Beyond had been left to wake at his own pace, to have to rouse Any from his bed was unheard of. But here he was, pounding repeatedly on the unresponsive door, shouting abuses that received no answer.

When he finally decided to kick the lazy teen out of bed physically, he was startled to find the room empty. The bed was rumpled and unmade, books stacked haphazardly on every surface, the desk an unruly mess of papers, and in general was in a state Any usually kept it in. It made Beyond cringe a little, but Any always preferred a little disorganization in his environment. But there was no Any.

Beyond scowled, cursed under his breath. Had he already gone down to the dining room without waiting for him? He knew how Beyond felt about going around the orphanage alone, what the hell was the idea?

Well, one day of solitary exposure wasn't going to kill him, but he was going to chew the elder boy's ear off when he finally found him.

Beyond didn't get his chance to verbally flay his friend for his thoughtlessness over the morning meal, however, and not before or during the first round of classes, either. The highly esteemed and zealously studious orphan was not in attendance for any of them, nor was there any word on where he was. Beyond began to worry into the second period, wondering where it was that Any could have got to that had him out of bed so early and not in his usual place in classes. He thought about asking the teachers, but they looked like they would only put him off if he did, so he sought out Roger instead. Roger at least give Beyond a clue if not a full-fledged explanation.

Searching for that respected oldster also proved futile as Beyond searched not only his offices and personal rooms, but every other area he was in the habit of occupying. All to no avail, Roger was nowhere to be found, and Any still refused to make an appearance after the lunch hour.

Into the afternoon, his worry began to dissipate. It was unlikely that anything so serious that would cause both Any and Roger to disappear would go uncommented on by all the teachers. If Any was ill or injured, then they would have told everyone to quell any such worries. The boy wasn't likely to be in so much trouble as to keep him from his studies all day, or to keep the administrator equally unavailable. It had to be something all their teachers were aware of, but were remaining willfully mum about.

The more Beyond thought about it, he eventually came up with a theory that seemed to fit. Any's sixteenth birthday was very near, and even though that made him a legal adult in the United Kingdom, the Wammy House - being more a training facility than a proper orphanage - retained a kind of guardianship of their wards for an additional year. With that milestone year coming up, it wasn't inconceivable that Any would be subject to some special curriculum or training course. In fact, it made more sense the longer he thought about it. It would explain why both boy and man were missing from their usual places, and depending on what kind of training Any was receiving, why he had said nothing to Beyond about it or why none of the teachers did, either. It was only logical that the highest ranked would be taken aside on the verge of his official adulthood. Or so Beyond convinced himself.

Thus reassured, Beyond ceased to worry over the missing teen and concentrated on his work. The feeling of unease that haunted him since wakening refused to leave quite so easily.

By the end of lessons. Any had still not appeared, and he hadn't returned to his room when Beyond peeked inside. Resigning himself to spending the day alone, and glad he could do so for the remainder without having to leave his room, he settled in to peruse the reading Any had left for him to find.

Min Ayahana's _'Akazukin Chacha'_.

Beyond shook his head at his friend's tastes, but started reading it all the same, picking out the first one and setting aside the rest for later. It was a cute, girlish story, and far from a difficult read. He'd finished the first volume and was a quarter of the way through the second when he became conscious of a sound just outside his door.

Excited voices and racing footsteps; a constant stream of them.

For some reason the unease around his shoulders settled heavily in his gut at the sounds. Which was foolish, there was no reason for them to make him feel uncomfortable. None. Voices raised in excitement and running down the halls were common in a place that housed children, even Wammy House.

Yet he was frozen, perfectly still in his position at the head of his bed, the open manga in his hands a blur of script and illustrations as his eyes unfocused. All of his attention was on what he could hear, the muffled words streaming past his door. He could make none of them out, but it sounded as though every orphan on the third floor was rushing by.

When the door banged open, Beyond nearly jumped out of his skin. For a wild second he thought it was Any, sprinting into his room to tell him where he had been the whole day with his boisterous energy. But it wasn't Any hanging in his door. It was a much younger, skinny boy, about nine years old, with ruffled red hair and flushed cheeks. He stood for a moment in the door, gulping down air. Behind him, fellow orphans continued to stream past, their voices an incoherent babble.

Finally catching his breath, the boy pointed down the hall, the same direction the flow of children were hurrying. "They found Any!"

Released from his paralysis, Beyond started upright, dropping the book to the sheets. Any had been 'found'? What did that mean? Beyond was so distracted he didn't even take note of the boy's name or lifespan. "What?"

"They found Any!" he repeated, motioning frantically for Beyond to follow. "In the old bell tower, c'mon!" And he was gone.

Beyond frowned after the redheaded boy, still not understanding what he meant. Any was in the bell tower…?

The bell tower…

Beyond got up, raced down the halls so fast he was soon dodging between his slower peers to pull out ahead of them. That's what it was, the uneasy feeling he had had all day, not Any's disappearance, although it looked as though the two were related. That thought only made the heavy, writhing sensation in his gut worse, and he poured on more speed.

The bell tower, and the bell. The ever-present sound that had become so familiar he'd only noticed when it was gone. He hadn't heard the bell all day.

...

The day was bright and cool, the early May sky a dazzling blue dotted with high, fleecy clouds. The sun warmed the earth, and gentle breezes caressed with chill fingers, carrying the scent of early season flowers. Insects buzzed, and birds busied themselves about the task of finishing up nests with only an occasional burst of avian song.

It was a perfect spring morning, but did nothing to lighten the mood of the hunched figure standing over a fresh grave. The breeze ruffled his mane of ebony, tossing strands across his eyes and dimming his view. He ignored the flickering of his vision, stayed still as a statue, his hands jammed deep into his pockets and back as curved as a man four times his age.

One who was approaching such an age stood in attendance behind the younger man, his straight and relaxed posture a stark contrast to the other's slouched but tense one. The weathered, graying gentleman watched his companion carefully, but without much anxiety. He knew that L could hold a single position for hours at a time without trouble, and it was only natural he would want to just now. Quillish would not interrupt his thoughts until he was invited to do so or until the sun began to sink over the horizon.

For his own part, L was only dimly aware of the patient presence waiting behind him. All of his attention was taken up by the unremarkable scrap of recently disturbed soil at his feet. There wasn't even a stone to mark the place as yet, but there didn't need to be. The memories, like the churned earth, were still fresh.

An hour passed in silence and stillness, and another before he bestirred himself from his reverie.

"It's been three days," he said, his voice perfectly modulated, revealing nothing of his state of mind. "What does Roger report on the general mind-set of the orphanage?"

The old man shrugged slightly, a force of habit as the one it was meant for couldn't see it. "About what one would expect following another death, exacerbated by the manner A was found. There was no way to contain his… discovery. Word spread almost instantly, and though only a few actually saw him, everyone knows how he died. Or a close enough version." Quillish paused, considering his next words carefully before offering them. "B is faring the worst out of everyone. By far."

There was no physical reaction to this declaration, but the curved frame of a man projected an air of attentiveness. "Have you seen him?" His tone was still unreadable.

"Yes, from a distance, at least." Eyes of worn cornflower blue joined the hematite pair in examining the sign of a recent addition to the cemetery. "He's withdrawn completely, but he still goes about his daily activities. It's as though he's lost, numbed. A's death took him as much by surprise as anyone else, and he doesn't know how to deal with it."

"A reasonable response, considering how close the two of them were."

"Agreed." The old benefactor looked off in the direction where, a couple miles distant, stood the building and its few dozen wards, once again sunk in grieving gloom. "It's… a shame to see their bond severed so abruptly."

A sound came from L that might have been a disgusted snort or a stifled sneeze. Whatever it had been, it was followed by a silent sigh, a small heaving of breath that raised and dropped his rounded shoulders. For a while, the grave once again became his sole point of focus, although it was obvious to the man waiting behind him that while his body was still, his mind was working furiously.

Such was always the boy's way, Quillish reflected. He could be active enough in body, but even if he had been the world's best athlete instead of detective, it still wouldn't match his mind. Even when he had been a very young boy, an orphan in his turn, he would sit off to a corner, knees drawn up to his chin, thumb resting at his lips in a childish remnant of when he used to suck on it, and watch everything that went on around him. Those huge eyes in a child's face would absorb all that went on around him, the mind behind them filing and cross-referencing so efficiently that when he made some observation based on his considerations, those around him were startled by their sharpness. They weren't privy to the many mental steps he had taken to reach his voiced conclusion, which was partly to blame for the surprise, but even if L had explained every step, they might very well still be left behind.

He had been - still was - a prodigy. An unbelievable well of intelligence and insight wrapped in a tiny orphan body. Finding him all those years ago, practically invisible in his shadowed corner and worrying a procured lollipop, had been like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.

And now, now they had that same haystack, the orphanage, and were attempting to spin it into gold.

"We missed this somehow," the detective said suddenly, startling Quillish out of his woolgathering. "No one saw it coming at all, and we should have. There will have to be stricter measures for acceptance into Wammy House. A full psychological and emotional stability profile taken early and updated often if the project continues."

Quillish caught the hinted assertion. "'If' it continues?"

L didn't back down from his half-hidden intention. "If," he said firmly. Then his voice softened, took an almost pleading tone. "We have to reevaluate, Quillish. One of our children, a life we were responsible for, has been lost because of our little project. Every aspect of it will have to be very carefully looked at and weighed before we can move along with it… If we do."

"I agree that we need to change the procedure," the elder man conceded, shifting his weight. "But think of the amount of time and effort already invested into this project. Almost five years in operation, three before that simply in the planning stage, a global network put into place… not to mention the children already here."

The thatch of black nodded slowly. "I know. _Everything_ will be brought to bear and reviewed." L turned, looked at Quillish for the first time since they arrived at the cemetery. The old man hoped it was the morning sunlight that made his skin so much paler, the circles under his black eyes heavier. "Our experiment isn't worth the lives of children."

Quillish had grown used to holding that bottomless stare over the years, but still found it harder than usual now. "It may never come to that again, L," he said softly. "As you said, this is an experiment, and there were bound to be some teething problems." He let his gaze flicker briefly over Any's grave. "We always knew that some of them would fail."

If black eyes could contain expression, L's lost any trace of it at Quillish's last words. "_We_ are the ones who failed _them_, Quillish. Please remember that." He turned away once again, the discussion at an end. Quillish knew better than to press, at least for now. He could see the young man was toeing a line, and had no desire to push him over.

He waited patiently for minutes, to see if L would continue along the same line. When it became apparent that nonesuch was forthcoming, he asked, "What are your plans, L?"

L stirred, as though waking from sleep. "There's a case in Australia that needs attention," he murmured. "We fly out tomorrow."

"What about the children?" Quillish asked, motioning uselessly back to the distant orphanage. "You didn't want to put in an appearance to reassure them?"

A silent headshake was the old man's reply.

"And B?"

The detective paused, considering the question before answering. "… I think it would be best if I distanced myself from the orphanage for awhile, Quillish. Considering the manner of Any's death, B probably blames me." The head rolled slightly to one side. "Seeing me now… it is not what he needs."

Quillish nearly argued, but thought better of it. Instead he lapsed into silence, once again waiting for L to conclude his meditation over A's grave. It was the second grave filled in five years; it would be some time before they left.

...

**_A/N2:_**_ So the first question I'm sure is on everyone's mind is "Was I planning on doing this with Any from the beginning?" One of the questions, anyway. The answer, with the exception of a few minor details here and there, is yes. Yes, I was. Mwah ha ha. Now go back and re-read previous chapters with this one in mind, bet ya it's a different experience. ;3_

_Now **my** question to all of you, my lovely readers, is this: What do you think of Any now, and how does it compare to previous impressions? I don't often ask for reviews - this is a first for 'WMN?', I think - but I'm genuinely curious what everyone thought about him. For all intents and purposes he was an OC, which I hate making because they usually flop, but I worked hard to really give Any some depth and have him fit with the existing cast; even if it only became apparent in the eleventh hour. So; love him or hate him, love to hate him or hate to love him, hurt to see what he was going through and sad to see him go or glad to see the back of the sneaky little backstabber? Any and all thoughts welcome and appreciated, no matter how small or odd. (This is a tiny taste of what I put my betas through regularly. They put up with so much. Love ya, honeys!)_

_Anyhoo, there's chapter nine, chapter ten up next, and it's a big 'un in terms of the story, I've been planning it out since in the beginning, a year or more ago. …meep. _

_See you all there, and if it's not until June that I post again, hope to see some of you at AO!_

_(For some reason FF's formatting isn't allowing dashes, so I'm using their page breaks instead. I don't like them, but there has to be something. -.-)_


	10. Splintered

_**A/N:**__ … (Insert sad, teary face and soft wails of despair here.) This. Is. __SO__. Late!_

_I'm so, so sorry everyone. I wanted to have this chapter posted by the end of May before leaving for the convention… and it's now __July__. Deadlines = Epic Fail Plz. Hopefully no one has become too frustrated with the long delay between chapters, and hopefully you can forgive me for my small hiatus. I have some very good reasons __why__ this is so late, most of them to do with the convention, as well as an Announcement. (Note: capital "A".) Rather than delay the chapter any more than necessary, I'll save them from the "A/N2," but please do read them, or at least give them a quick scan, there's some important stuff there._

_One thing before we march forth: I use the metric system in this chapter, because everyone but my own country uses it, and I tend to prefer it personally. I know I've used 'miles' before, I'll probably go back and fix that at some point so everything is consistent. For my non-metric brethren, fear not, "A/N2" will have the proper conversions. ^^_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

_**Music:**_ The Cave _by __Michael Nyman & Damon Albarn (_Ravenous _soundtrack), _Goodnight _by The Birthday Massacre,_ Home _by Three Days Grace, _Pain _by Three Days Grace, _Scared_ by Three Days Grace, and_ Blow Me Away_ by Breaking Benjamin._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for graphic and disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both __Death Note__ and __Death Note: Another Note__._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

...

What's My Name?

Part Ten, "Splintered"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell."  
~Oscar Wilde~_

...

When you're alone, the whispers come for you. When the world fills to its brim with pain, sorrow and confusion, when nothing is as you thought it was and all you want to do is disappear for eternity, the voices find you. No matter how well you may hide, how deeply sunk in darkness and despair you might be, the slithering, murmuring babble will be there with you.

To Beyond, they were a familiar kind of companion, their timbre and rhythm made to sound strange by their long absence, but unmistakable. They still spoke too softly to make out what they said, but that wouldn't last forever. Soon he would to able to hear every syllable, whether he wanted to or not. Exactly the way it used to be, before.

The boy curled into an even tighter ball, hands clapped firmly over his ears, trying to block out the insidious sounds. It was a useless gesture. The whispers could always find their way in. They leaked into his room from the corners, the spaces around doorframes and windows, slipping through the cracks around the ceiling light and outlets. They came in through anywhere to flutter around his head, to lick at his ears and seep into his brain. He couldn't keep them out, and even if he couldn't understand them yet, their tenor was unmistakable. It was all so familiar; it made him sick to his stomach with remembrance.

The voices pressed in close, but it reminded him of when he had been alone.

And he was alone, all over again. Any was dead.

Just thinking the words, it made no sense. The concept wouldn't connect properly in his mind, nor did it metamorphose into something that would. Any was dead. Any - was - dead.

Any. Was. Dead.

Killed himself, tied a rope around his neck and stepped off a railing and into the afterlife just before dawn. The rope and its weighty burden had tangled with the inner workings of the bell, silencing it. The fall wasn't far, but it had snapped the boy's neck like a twig, leaving his head to loll at impossible angles. The flesh of his face bloated during the night, his tongue protruded grotesquely, bloody eye sockets stared sightlessly, their orbs pecked out long before anyone had found him by the bell tower's resident crows…

Beyond shuddered and gagged, his stomach clenching painfully. He'd seen it, had seen Any hanging there before they could close off the bell tower, the image was forever seared into his retinas to flash back to hideous life whenever he closed his eyes. He'd seen what was left of Any, his one and only friend, knew without doubt that what had been cut down from the bell tower was nothing but lifeless meat.

Any was dead, committed suicide while the rest of the world slept.

It was impossible. Impossible for Any to be dead, buried in the Wammy House cemetery beside C. Beyond knew better than anyone else that no one lived forever, that death was the foregone conclusion to every life's struggle. He held no childish delusion that his friend would live forever. Any, along with everyone else, was meant to die. But…

… he wasn't meant to die _yet_.

Pale, slim fingers twisted into a tangled mass of hair, left un-brushed for days, took hold of hanks of the black stuff and pulled. It hurt; it hurt his scalp and his fingers where strands cut into the skin. But it didn't hurt enough. It didn't wake him from the impossible nightmare and bodiless whispers. Beyond twisted and yanked harder, until it felt as though the skin would rip from his skull and tears stung his eyes, but it still wasn't enough to mend the world.

Any couldn't be dead. He'd only been fifteen, and his numbers had him living to the age of sixty-six. Fifty-one years had gone missing, had been stolen from Any. Fifty-one years… Beyond tried to convince himself that he had _somehow_ misread the label, and that Any had died precisely when he was meant to. Or that they had changed, rearranged into a new pattern and he had just overlooked it. While the thought that he could be so careless as to miss something so… so basic grated, it was easier to accept than what was forcing itself to be the truth:

The numbers had LIED.

It was a long-suffered, but long accepted fact that what Beyond saw every day was the lifespan of everyone he met. He knew when they were to die, and that as a consequence, was constantly reminded that life was finite and fleeting. He hated, resented that revelation forced on him and reiterated at every turn, but in a way it gave him a sense of stability. They were reminders of death, but the labels were also a kind of pillar, a foundation of the rules of Beyond's world. The numbers were inescapable, as reliable as the earth was solid, air was breathable and sky was blue, and offered a small consolation of at least being dependable. Beyond hadn't realized that they were, in fact, guaranteeing someone's survival until a predestined time.

… Until Any escaped. It seemed one could cheat the numbers that stalked them all their lives. By shortening their time.

What good were his eyes, his hellish, demonic eyes that marked him 'freak' to all around him when the numbers could lie? The one advantage of stability, the tiny recompensing promise they made was stripped, and now Beyond felt the first fingers of uncertainty creep over him. The one thing he could rely on his whole life, the knowledge of _when_ was no more, and the world felt ready to shake apart at the seams.

Or maybe, _maybe_ there had never been any names or numbers. Maybe he had only been imagining them his whole life, and they were hallucinations, nothing more.

Maybe he was insane.

Words rustled down from the ceiling, crept nearer from the corners, pressing in. Beyond curled on himself tighter.

They were getting closer, their meanings still incomprehensible, but closer all the same. He was alone, and they knew it. They could sense he was unguarded and vulnerable. "Look at him," he could practically make out. "Did you see his eyes? They're red, like a monster!"

"He's not human…"

"What human has red eyes…?"

"_Demon_! He's a demon!"

"It's too dangerous for him to be here, too dangerous to let him live…"

Where were his shields, the protective barriers that had held out the insidious voices for years?

Any was gone, dead when he had no right to be, leaving him alone to face the stares and the sideways glances, the covered whispers that skittered away to lurk in his room. He'd escaped, leaving Beyond behind to fend for himself.

Where was L?

L, Beyond's second shield from the world and its cruelties. He who stepped in rarely but effectively, the one who offered his protection to so many, here and across the globe, where was he now? It had been a week since the burial, two since Any's death, and there had been not a single sign of him in all that time. He hadn't even been present for the funeral. If he cared so much for his heirs, where was he when one had committed suicide and another was abruptly friendless?

For that matter, _why_ had Any killed himself? That was nearly as baffling as the how of the matter to Beyond. Any was top ranked, preparing for his final year at the Wammy House, and was practically guaranteed to be L's successor. What had gone wrong? What reason could he have to… Did he _not want_ to be L's successor?

The hours slipped by, sunlight drained away like sand in a glass, and eventually the phantom whispers receded back to nothing. For now. Beyond still did not move, he could find no answers as to why or how his world had been tossed to its side, why L was conspicuously absent, or what it all meant to his eyes or what it might mean to his sanity. Sleep came softly, silently, and if it didn't grant him rest, it was at least mercifully dreamless.

…

…

…

The clock alarm woke Beyond the next morning. He rose sluggishly, sure that he wouldn't have woken for hours left on his own. Still not what could be called properly awake, he went through the routine of getting ready for the day, his mind a confused muddle of what _should_ be awaiting him outside his door and the realities of the last half-month. It wasn't until he was reaching for the doorknob he remembered that it was Saturday, and there were no classes.

Beyond's hand stopped halfway to the knob, an even paler, skinnier version of what it had once been. A moment and the skeletal shadow fell back to his side, and the boy stood, staring blankly at his paneled door with no reason to go through or to go back into his room. With no desire or energy to go either forward or backward, he simply stood and stared. The wood grain became a kind of swimming, twisting world of its own. There were no thoughts he could think that he hadn't already thought hundreds of times in the last fortnight, so he did his best not to think at all. It was surprisingly easy, and Beyond lost track of time and himself, bleary eyes tracing lines in the wood.

It was the muscles in his legs and back that finally told him he needed to sit and rest. At least he thought it was, as they were all stiff and aching. It might have been something else that recalled him, a distant voice, a shutting door, the familiar, incessant gnawing of an empty belly, or the far off clanging of the damned bell in its tower… it might have been anything that shook him awake.

Rather than go back to his bed or chair, he sank to the floor where he stood, his knees, ankles, and several places along his spine snapping. He was hungry, his belly pressed close to his backbone, but he couldn't eat. Hunger was not the same as appetite, and the thought of food made Beyond feel nauseous. It had been a long time since his last full meal. For the most part he only ate handfuls of whatever looked the safest, the least likely to upset his stomach. Surprisingly, it usually came to something sweet or sugary.

The carpet was Beyond's new canvas, and it gave him the first sign of passing time. Shadows were just beginning to crawl their way across his floor, meaning it was late afternoon now. The last time he'd glanced at his clock it had been 7:30. The lateness didn't surprise him, but the failure of anyone to check on him or try to get him to come out of his room did. Had someone come up, knocked on his door and he just never heard it, even standing a foot away? Was it possible for him to tune out that much? He doubted that they would have just given up. They were usually there every day, trying to console him, cheer him, get him to come out, join the others, to eat… He always listened with half an ear, made vague promises to come out later, and pretended to eat whatever they brought him, quietly saving most of it to dispose of in secret.

They wouldn't just give up, but it might be possible that they were abstaining for a day in hopes that that might help their cause more than constantly badgering him.

Far be it from him to discourage that particular line of action, they could completely forget about him for all he cared. He still attended his classes and he wasn't starving - although he had lost some weight. That should be enough to satisfy them.

Still carefully avoiding thinking of anything too familiar, Beyond looked around his room.

It was a sty. He hadn't bothered to clean it at all in the last two weeks, and it showed, however clean his habits were. It was the dirtiest he'd ever let his personal space get since he was a toddler. He paused, red and reddened eyes drifting. Of course, thinking back so far brought up even older memories it would be best to avoid. Only fragments, but sharp ones. The scent of a floral shampoo, dust motes caught in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a window, a deep baritone voice whose rare laughs rolled richly throughout the little house, the phantom feeling of slim, strong arms encircling him and holding tight…

Beyond blinked. If he didn't clean the room soon himself, the housekeepers would remember that there _was_ a room here. He got up, joints complaining anew, and started to excavate his bed.

It took two hours, but finally his room was clean enough to look at. More importantly, though, cleaning had allowed him to continue in the limbo state of non-thinking, and he wished the filth had been more extensive so he could work longer. Especially when in the act of cleaning up, he'd uncovered the volumes of manga Any had left in his room.

Without thinking, Beyond picked up the second volume, flipped to where he had left off and started to read. It wasn't a difficult text, but then he wasn't really paying attention. The only reason he was reading was because there was no reason _not_ to. He just wanted his mind occupied with something, _anything_. As long as his brain was idling with something pointless and safe, it wouldn't drift to darker waters.

He finished the second volume in less than forty-five minutes, and wasn't sure he could recall more than the names of the three child protagonists. The third took a little less than the second, and he could perhaps remember the names of the two teachers and the main plot, but nothing of what passed for subtext. The fourth and fifth were consumed in a blink, with practically nothing at all of its contents retained.

It wasn't until he was opening the thirteenth and final volume that anything managed to shake him from his haze. A piece of paper, or rather, an envelope, fell into his lap from between the pages.

Beyond stared stupidly for a minute, coming back awake enough to reach out and pick it up with numb fingers. It was sealed and addressed on the back, after a fashion. Beyond's innards did an uncomfortable jerk when he scanned the sickeningly familiar handwriting.

B  
Beyond  
Backup

His thoughts refused to arrange themselves into recognizable patterns for a moment, just stayed suspended in their fractured state like silt in a pond, each one only a piece of a complete form, and each totally disassociated with the next.

It was Any's handwriting.

_Backup?_ the thought floated confusedly through the turmoil of his mind. _What…?_

Beyond didn't move. He knew what it was he must be holding in his hands, the general tenor of the letter he held. He didn't want to read it, didn't want to know what it was Any had written for him to read. He wanted to throw it away, or better yet, burn it without opening it, so there would be no chance of either himself or anyone else ever learning what was written there. … But at the same time, there was an almost compulsive urge to rip it open and read it. A macabre desire to _know_.

Shakily, Beyond broke the seal of the envelope and took out the folded piece of paper inside.

_Everyone deserves to have their last words heard,_ he reasoned, and began to read Any's suicide note.

...

Deep in shadow, heavy, shuddering breaths were forced through bared and drying teeth. Fingers clutched the edge of a porcelain sink, the knuckles groaning and whitening from the strain, trembling legs struggled to hold up the weight of the boy they belonged to. In a night drenched bathroom, Beyond tried to understand a world turned completely inside out.

"_There's nothing left for me anymore."_

Breathing was hard. It was as though his lungs had been frozen, his muscles turned to ice and innards skewered with tiny, wintry spears. If his lungs were ice, though, his heart was on fire. It felt like it was ready to explode, it was beating so fast, his brain turned to jelly. His eyes watered and burned, his stomach clenched convulsively.

"… _and I won't do what I had planned to do."_

His stomach suddenly clenched further, as though someone had kicked him in the gut, and Beyond was abruptly heaving into the sink. He had been eating so little that all that came up was bile and acid. It burned his esophagus, palate and tongue, the acrid taste of his stomach contents clinging to flesh and teeth alike. His body heaved again, and again, until there wasn't even acid left, and he was left gagging.

"_What you thought was friendship was a lie."_

Tears and saliva ran down Beyond's face freely as his retching subsided. His entire body shook violently from reaction. He wasn't sure until he actually checked that he was still standing.

"_I never meant to be your friend."_

In the deepening gloom, Beyond could still make out his own reddened, tear-streaked and puffy face. He directed his thoughts at those pathetic features on the other side of the glass, hardly needing to press his anger to the surface to make it felt. _He was never your friend, idiot,_ he thought fiercely. _You were just a piece of leverage to him, a tool. No one would ever befriend you for your own sake, and when you weren't even good for that…_

"_I'd rather not exist at all than go back to what I once was."_

Beyond had finished reading Any's letter more than an hour ago, and it had told him enough, shook him enough, to send him flying for the same files Any had snooped through his last night alive. It was likely security had been increased since then, but Beyond needed something concrete, something in black and white and emotionless to confirm everything Any had written. In a strange kind of way, it was like he was desperate to take away his own last shred of hope.

"_It was all right there, they don't even try to sugarcoat it when they think no one else is watching."_

And it was. The files had been updated, but enough remained for B to understand what Any had seen. Beyond had been lined up to replace Any in the topmost spot, and Any would have been removed from his long-held position. Permanently. Something about 'declining psychological evaluations and a marked disinclination for certain key roles of a detective.' Whatever it really meant or came from, they considered it reason enough to forever disqualify Any from becoming L's direct heir.

"_You'll be the new number one, Beyond. Congratulations."_

Everything they told them when they had first started, when they first came to the Wammy House, was so much bull. This wasn't a better, brighter chance at redemption, a caring home where the needs of the wards came first before all. It was just a training ground for commodities, for tools to be forged. If the tool was faulty, you replaced it with a new one. They didn't care about their wards in the sense of caring _about_ them…

**L didn't care.**

It was all a fabric of lies. All of it. L wasn't some kind of modern patron saint, watching over those too weak to protect themselves. He was a narcissistic, self-satisfying ego maniac, determined that even when he died there would remain some version of him, that the world wouldn't be allowed to completely forget L, the Great Detective. The Wammy House, shelter and the first real home Beyond had ever had since his parents had died, was nothing but a meat grinder, devouring its youth and churning out automatons all with the same face. Even the numbers couldn't be depended on to remain what they appeared to be. They could deceive the same as anything else.

And Any, his one friend, his last defense against the loneliness, the hopelessness, against the whispers that circled him even now… had never been there. Any was a lie, too.

"_I'm sorry…"_

And what was he? What had he _**ever**_ been? A son to be hidden, a student to be ignored or tormented, an orphan to be forgotten, a demon to be reviled, an empty shell to be filled with some foreign identity?

… a **BACKUP?**

"… _it's just who I am…"_

He was a lie, too. All his life, to every person he had ever known, he was a tight bundle of falsehoods. His name, his eyes, what he saw, what he knew… all culminating to this: a copy of a man whose existence was as much an act as his own. A copy of lies, an echo of nothing… Scrape away all the layers of deception and what exactly would be left?

"… _you can't change what you are."_

Beyond felt something inside him crumple, and the whispers all around him became the wild, rushing sound of water filling his ears. Someone was scraping a piece of metal down his vertebrae, ants were crawling around the base of his skull, his skin was too tight and too hot. He was angry, and wanted to lash out. He was afraid, and wanted to hide. It was all too ridiculous and he wanted to laugh and cry and howl all at once.

He did none of those things. Instead, B looked up, and saw L Lawliet staring back at him. Hate filled his chest until he was sure his ribs would crack. Glaring at the pallid face, the familiar stooping shoulders and the set of his neck… every tiny detail filled him with a loathing he had never known before. It was with crystal clarity and surprising calmness he realized something he never thought he would feel:

He wanted to kill L. Choke or slice or beat every last little bit of life out of his body, and leave it to rot away to nothing.

Backup grinned, and L mimicked him with an equally feral baring of his teeth.

B giggled without meaning to. Now L was copying _him_? An empty copy of something already empty being copied by the original emptiness?

Bartram giggled again. It was a high, ugly sound that would set your teeth on edge, like nails on a chalkboard. It didn't matter to him anymore if L was his guardian. Killing him, watching as his name and numbers slowly boiled away and knowing _he_ was the one making it happen, that would more than make up for any moral hang-ups. So what if his numbers were still far from running out? Any had escaped his, and you never knew if something were really true or not until you tested it yourself…

Backup's glazed garnets wandered up to look at those dancing characters above L's head and froze. There were no numbers, and it wasn't the detective's name hovering over his head.

He was staring at his own reflection.

It wasn't the fact that he was ready to kill that disturbed him, or that he had genuinely thought that L had been in the room with him, but his own appearance. Gaunt, dark circles like smudges of kohl under his eyes, the posture of an elderly man… He realized with a visible start that he was the same age now that L had been when the two of them had first met in Roger's office. When he had first seen, challenged, and then determined to become as like the man as possible.

Looking into his trembling reflection, it was difficult to tell right away that he _wasn't_ L. The largest clues were also the easiest to erase. His secret, hovering name, his vermillion eyes burning holes into the mirror's silvering, and the small line of blood trickling from his left nostril. Except for those, he might be the man himself.

He'd accomplished his goal.

He watched as a small hairline crack sped its way across the glass, the sound like straining ice, his reflection dividing into two jagged halves. Mirrors were like a reflection of the self, of the psyche. They saw without bias, without regard for any personal feelings of who saw what they showed. If they saw ugliness, ugliness would be revealed, and the same would be true for cruelty, jealousy, spite or rage. All were the same to senseless glass. And if one's mind began to unravel completely…

Another line snapped through the glass, dividing an eye in two.

Bartram took hold of the sides of the mirror, as though to slow the progress of the thread-like splintering.

Mirrors are fragile things. The tighter Backup held on, the faster the cracks spread. The more cracks spread, the tighter he held on, until all he could see was a twisted, distorted reflection through a spider web of shattered glass. His hands bled freely, the coppery scent tickling his nose as what he tried to save shredded his palms to ribbons.

It was all for nothing. L never _cared_. They weren't friends to him, not _people_. Just spare parts in a greater machine. Any had killed himself rather than be second, rather than earning L's disappointment. But he didn't care about Any in the first place, wouldn't feel pride _or_ disappointment for the boy, only in his project. In a job failed or well done. Any had betrayed and died for a rank. For a number.

And numbers had proved themselves empty.

Beyond's mirror finally fell to pieces, the warped monstrosity of a reflection coming apart and raining to the floor, glass against tile making delicate music. Minuscule reflections showed him what he truly was now:

A red-eyed demon surrounded by blood-stained splinters of sanity.

B chuckled, the sound echoing back to him. Maybe Any had been right. Maybe the only escape was complete escape. Maybe you had to jump off the world to get away.

His hands shook as he felt his face. The smell of blood got stronger. He wanted to rip his flesh away, pluck out his eyeballs, strip down to nothing but bone and re-grow an identity that wasn't a demon, orphan, _or_ L. Become someone who could live without death and without lies.

"_You can't change what you are."_

A breathy, breathy chuckle escaped his lips again; then another, and another. They poured out of Beyond, growing in volume until they were stumbling over each other in their hurry to emerge. His cursed eyes shed painful tears, his gasps for breath were strained, and the sound of his mirth took on the dangerous edge of hysteria.

He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't stop.

Dizzy but unable to stem his laughter, Beyond desperately crammed a fist between his teeth and bit down hard. The pain of teeth cutting into his knuckles, of his jaw threatening to dislocate if much more stress were applied to it, slowly brought the room back into focus. The mad laughter subsided reluctantly, and B looked around himself.

There was no shattered glass littering the floor around his feet, no drips or trails of blood from cut and torn hands. The mirror was whole, clean, reflecting a boy with wide eyes and stark white skin, the only mark of blood coming from what was still flowing from his nose. The laughter, and the madness with it, subsided, and the world came a little bit back to him.

It was still there, though, the laughter and the madness. He could feel it, waiting, watching for any release. Clacking and rattling along the inside of his ribs, it threatened to fracture the slender bones. It was a dangerous thing he kept trapped inside his chest, and he wasn't likely to trap it again if it got out.

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh…_

His mind cleared a little further, the laughter receded far enough so it felt safe to remove his hand from his mouth. There were deep, slightly bloody teeth impressions across his knuckles.

A couple things were clear to him now, a few realities come to terms with, and all of them demanded action. First, he couldn't remain at Wammy's House. To stay and play their game when he knew what was running below the surface was unthinkable. He knew, and attempting to appear as though he didn't and continue to go through the motions was more than he could do. He would have to leave, immediately.

Second, L had to suffer. He had to pay for everything done in his name, for the sick experiment he was conducting and the misery that resulted. L _would_ feel some of the pain in his turn, and Beyond would be the one to deliver it to him. Justice would be dealt the hypocrite, and Beyond would prove the tools superior to the machine.

Both of these had problems, obvious and obscure ones alike. For one, the Wammy House wouldn't let him just walk away. Letting one of their precious wards wander in the world unprotected was out of the question. Not for his protection. Even without a vendetta, he was dangerous. Collecting him would be for L's protection. B had been raised in Wammy House, had seen and spoken with the detective many thought of as myth, and had been taught his ways, trained in his way of thinking. Even if they never suspected his intention to move against his predecessor, having him loose with such sensitive information was unacceptable.

And of course, if they _knew_ that he intended the oh-so wonderful detective harm… That same training and knowledge base would be taken into account, and efforts to recover him increased accordingly. No effort would be spared, he was sure, if it was in the interest of protecting L and his little empire.

He had to escape, had to find a way of surviving and existing in a world that he hadn't been a part of for five years, and also avoid capture. An under-aged boy on the run from someone as intelligent as L, who could mobilize and exploit all but the most elite of any of the world's law enforcement bureaus.

And none of this was taking into consideration _what_ exactly Beyond would do to punish L. He couldn't kill him. Even with Any's inexplicable escape from his fated day, B didn't believe that he could cheat L's by attempting murder, even if he could get close enough. In any case, it wouldn't actually _hurt_ him enough to satisfy B. The man had been planning for his own death for years, as evidenced by Wammy's House. He was prepared for death, and nothing immediately leading up to it was likely to shake him.

If not his life, there was one place where Beyond knew L would feel it: His ego.

If there was a case that even the great Detective L couldn't solve, that would be a real blow, wouldn't it? He would live with that failure, it forever mocking him and casting doubt over every new case he took. And if the case were concerning one of his heirs, a mere component in his grand scheme… What better way to take revenge on him for their suffering than for one of those heirs to surpass him?

A slow smile crept over the teen's face, a few teeth smeared with the blood dribbling down his face, his eyes taking a new, frightening cast that color alone could never have achieved.

A lot had to be done, and he only had one night to do it. He would be gone before the sun rose, and that would mean working quickly. He moved to walk back to his room, to start gathering up what he would absolutely need for his survival in the outside world, when he noticed that he was still holding Any's letter. He'd yet to put it down.

It was a long letter, most he wished he could forget. B had the last page at the front, where Any had signed it the same way he had addressed the envelope to B: with three names. The code letter, his taken name, and the name that only appeared in Wammy House personal files.

A  
Any  
Alternate

"_You know, it always comes down to our names, even though we don't have real ones anymore,"_ he'd said near the end. _"Any - like 'any will do.' Beyond - as in 'beyond expectations.' Even the names Wammy's gave us. 'Alternate,' something used only in an emergency. 'Backup,' one who can fully replace the original._

"_You were meant to be __**my**__ backup, and the L's backup-backup. Backup Backup, BB. I guess you're the only one to have a first __**and**__ last name in this place…"_

Always down to the names. … Names and numbers…

Well, he would use that in his plans against L. He had an advantage in that his eyes would reveal the most precious numbers a person had as well as their name. And L still didn't have Beyond's real name… He would use his curse, his greatest handicap as his weapon of choice against L. The names and numbers, and the eyes that let him see them. The eyes he'd had since before his birth.

In the gloom of the bathroom, clutching the suicide note of his only friend that wasn't, his own darkened reflection offering his only companionship and the shadows caressing his skin, welcoming him as one of their own… _Beyond_ _Birthday_ grinned.

...

A little over 16,000 kilometers away, a young man sat in a straight backed wooden chair, his legs drawn close to his body and arms draped lazily over them. The wide, panoramic windows in front of him showed the wharves of Cairns, Australia, the light of a setting sun setting the South Pacific Sea ablaze with glittering chop and the rich amber glow of wine and gems. Ships and pleasure yachts made their leisurely way back to dock for the night, save those whose crew preferred to spend their time on the water after the stars flared to life. Sounds of tourists returning from their daily excursions in the city or nearby attractions and the noises of night revelers leaving the hotel drifted in to him from the hallways and streets.

L paid no attention to any of it. His mind, forever awhirl, was far away from where he sat, and neither sight nor sound reached him. Nor did he reach for any of the many and varied sweets piled around him. Caramello Koalas and Freddo Frogs stared up at him silently, piles of chicos, jaffas, minties and fantales remained untouched in their bowls. It wasn't the heat of the area that kept the detective motionless in his seat. While the tropical climate was remaining true and steady at 26 degrees Celsius and 68% humidity, the hotel's air conditioning and climate controls kept the rooms comfortable. Nor was it his most recent case keeping him immobile, which involved a very particular and powerful group's business with the exportation of highly illegal substances. They were cleverly using the local tourist trade as a cover, and the recent cyclone the area was still recovering from had only complicated matters further. Millions were exchanging hands in back rooms and high rise offices alike, and the body count was creeping ever closer to double digits.

The detective's overlarge eyes _were_ affixed to the screen of his computer, the harsh light of the monitor reflecting in his unblinking pupils, but it wasn't graphs, statistics or maps he was staring at. It wasn't voice clips or recordings of tapped phone conversations that filled his ears, but the steady clicking of nails against teeth as he chewed his fingers absently. He read and re-read the e-mail he'd received from Wammy's House only five minutes before, his mind churning through every fact it presented, every nuance he knew that wasn't included in the text, and calculated what it could all mean.

The conclusions he arrived at weren't encouraging.

A flurry of footsteps speeding down the hallway outside L's spacious suite heralded yet another party of people heading out for their evening's entertainment. If the sound was familiar to L, if it reminded him of the orphanage in far off England and all it contained, and if such things affected him in any way, he didn't show it. Not even to the chocolate characters smiling up at him in sugary ignorance.

A soft knock came from the door leading from the adjoining room. L didn't move or even blink when he called "Come in."

Quillish Wammy, still attired in his usual suit and tie while within the confines of the hotel, entered a few steps and stopped. Normally he would have approached closer to his young ward, but he read something subtle in L's manner that warned him against intruding into his personal space. While the boy's gaze wasn't turned towards him at all, the elder man carefully arranged his features to show nothing more than slightly concerned neutrality. So composed, he waited for L to break the silence built between them.

It didn't last long, as L dove straight into the subject. "I have received the e-mail from the orphanage outlining the basics of what they know and have discovered.," he said, his voice a dull monotone. "For the earliness of the hour there they've done well in compiling the information. I have his most recent psychological evaluation, his observed behaviors over the last week, the estimated time of his disappearance, a short list of missing items, and photos of the points of interest in his room. What I still need," L removed his fingers from his mouth and ticked them off with each item. "Is a report from everyone at the orphanage - child and adult - on their observations of B and any sounds or sights heard last night, photos of B's entire room, any local weather or road conditions that may affect his progress that won't be available to us through the internet, and a complete list of _every_ missing item at the orphanage."

Quillish nodded, unsurprised but somewhat dismayed by L's strictly professional attitude. It was to be expected but still somewhat… disheartening. "That will include an accounting of every lost toy of every child," he replied. It wasn't a complaint, but a check on what L was requiring.

"I know. A _complete_ list, Quillish."

The man gave another unseen nod. "Understood. I anticipated most of your requirements and have already spoken with Roger over the phone."

"And what do they have thus far?" he asked, toying with a chocolate Freddo Frog.

"They are currently gathering witness accounts from the students and staff, as well as a thorough list of buses, trains, and taxies that ran during the night. From what I understand, a description of B is being circulated to these agencies, but not the police as yet. Roger wanted to await your approval on that point."

L nodded curtly. "Understood. Continue." The Freddo Frog, dangling from pale fingertips, cavorted about its fellow confectioneries carelessly.

Quillish hesitated a moment, unsure of what to think of L's uncharacteristic reluctance to give an order on a key detail. He continued, "They are currently photographing every angle of B's room, and will send them _en masse_ with the usual encryptions. From what Roger has told me, the most notable feature is just how _clean_ the room is. As though it had been scrubbed from ceiling to floor." He paused again, watching the candy frog leap around the heaps of sugary consumables.

"As for the list of missing items, only B's dorm has been thoroughly searched, the next closest being A's. I have a partial list of what they have noticed being absent so far."

"Read me the highlights."

Quillish had brought no paper with him to read from, but there was no need. He had the list memorized. "Including what was missing from B's room, which was sent in the email, from A's there were several volumes of Japanese comics, two shirts, his CD walkman and headphones, and four CDs."

"The names of the comics and CDs?"

"'Akazukin Chacha' by Min Ayahana, and four collections of Beethoven."

"Anything else?"

"There have been reports from nearly every residential professor of monetary theft. Three reference books are missing from the third floor library, and at least a rudimentary medical kit from the Nurse's office, although there may be more gone than a cursory search would turn up. They're taking stock of everything, just in case."

The chocolate Frog came to a stop and fell to the table with a small clatter. "I see… The time these items strayed?"

"Between time of the discovery of their absence and the evening before."

"Hmm…" The pale, bony hand once again came up to L's face, and he bit at the nail of his right thumb. The sound of his chewing filled the room as he stared at the pictures the orphanage had sent him via e-mail.

Quillish, watching from his place near the door and sensing more than seeing the tension slowly building in the young detective, shifted his weight, the closest he ever came to a fidget. "L…" he started, his voice softer than before. "Whatever B has planned, you must remember that it is entirely _his_ decision. …You could not have foreseen this."

"Yes, I could." The reply was the same monotone as ever, no hint of any emotion that may or may not have been beneath the surface.

Suddenly L reached out a thin, white clad arm and enlarged one of the pictures on the monitor, turned it so the elder man could see. "The photos of the mirror, you've seen them before," he said, knowing Quillish would have received the same email. "Does anything strike you as unusual about them?"

Quillish finally approached close enough to see the glowing screen. It was indeed an image he had become very familiar with. It was a photo of the bathroom mirror in B's dorm, taken at an odd angle to prevent any reflected glare. It was meant to show what was written on the glass:

_L-  
I know.  
Catch me if you can.  
-BB_

The message itself, and the odd double letter signature were peculiar enough. What one couldn't help noticing, what Roger had felt compelled to point out in the body of his e-mail even though it was already painfully obvious, was that it was written in blood.

Quillish cleared his throat. He reminded himself of what he had seen in the past, and that this ranked low on the scale of grotesqueness. This was just another incident they had to clear up. Who it involved didn't read into it other than how it affected _their_ thought processes. Something odd in the message…

"B is, or was, a very logical boy, and extremely finicky about his environment. To use his own blood to leave a message smacks of deliberate, forced melodrama."

L grunted, his head bobbing in agreement. "That's the impression he wanted to give, certainly. Both the wording and the use of blood point to that strongly. But look at the letters individually."

The image magnified further, until the message filled the screen, all extraneous details cropped away. Quillish studied it carefully. The blood was real, it was the proper color and consistency from what the picture was able to show, and from the 'guttering' effect of each character it was apparent B had used his fingers to write the message.

Quillish shook his head. "Besides content, nothing appears out of place."

"Do you see how even, how controlled the writing is?" L drew one finger along the "C" of "Catch" to illustrate. "He's using blood to leave an impassioned challenge just before running away, but he's in perfect control of himself. That's," L sat back, "the real message he's left. He's been pushed to the metaphorical edge, perhaps even a little over it, but he knows exactly what he's doing. He still has control of all of his faculties. The danger, in this situation, has risen exponentially."

Quillish nodded, seeing the truth of it. If it had just been one of the Wammy children who had had enough and run, it would have been a problem, but reasonably easy to solve. Even intelligent children were still children when governed by emotion. But with one of them on the run and still thinking clearly… Worse yet, thinking clearly and angry…

"What do you think he plans to do?"

Bony shoulders shrugged. L still did not turn to face the other man. "I am unsure as yet, but there are a few likely possibilities."

"And the way he signed his name? _BB_?"

L paused, tilted his head. "It could be a gesture of taking on a new identity, that by running from Wammy's House, he is becoming a new person. It could be some kind of reference to the running challenge we had on each other to find each other's names…" L's toes rubbed together, the shift making the wooden chair creak. "But I think that it's his way of leaving a clue. He wants us to try and find him… by leaving the initials 'B.B.' we should focus on the possibility of his using an alias with those letters."

L lapsed into silence, then, merely continuing to chew his thumb as he stared at some point Quillish could not see. After waiting only a moment for further instructions and receiving none from the contemplative youth, he turned to leave. Further calls would have to be made to gather all the information L needed, and time was paramount.

"Q."

The old man stopped instantly, his code letter driving home just how seriously L was taking the situation, how far he was willing to take it.

"Assume that he knows everything we know. His parting words suggest as much and we are best advised to believe it for now. Every bit of personal data on every Wammy child, every nuance of every case, the location of every one of our safe houses worldwide; until it's been proven otherwise, we operate as though _every_ piece of information were at his fingertips.

"And we treat him as a hostile entity."

Quillish was glad that L wasn't able to see his wince. He knew this was the way, the _only_ way B's actions could be handled, but it didn't make hearing it stated aloud any easier. He was delayed again, just before his fingers curled around the doorknob, by L's voice.

"And Quillish…"

He waited.

"… see to it the chocolate supplies are properly stored," he said quietly, almost mumbling. "The local humidity is likely to cause a bloom unless it's protected."

He nodded. "Of course," he replied, as though it were as important as any of his other tasks.

Quillish closed the door behind him quietly, leaving L alone in the quickly darkening room with only the light of the monitor and night lights of Cairns to illuminate his surroundings. The light of his computer, still displaying the bloodied mirror, cast the detective's face in an eerie, corpse-like blue. His eyes, ever unblinking, stared at the words left by his successor, the black wells absorbing them to keep locked away in his mind forever.

Even with his guardian gone, L did not move either to eat or to fidget. He felt no reason to relax when there was no one physically there to see him. Because now he was left to face his demons alone.

_**...  
**_

_**A/N2:**__ I know I've mentioned it before, but I would like to point out that we have officially crossed the line into 'novel', here. .o My second novel ever, and it's fanfiction - the back-story of Beyond Birthday. Awesome._

_**Metric Conversions:**__ 16,000 kilometers = just under 10,000 miles. 26*C = 79*F._

_Right. So. Here we are. I won't go into everything that went into this chapter on a personal level, because it would take much too long and be incredibly boring. Suffice it to say that this chapter was both amazingly enjoyable and amazingly torturous to write. Since first falling in love with the character of Beyond Birthday, I've wanted to show him from a slightly different perspective than what is generally seen. A little off, a little insane, and incredibly angry? Yes to all, but with a reason. Psychosis without cause doesn't make a deep and leveled character, in my opinion. So I wanted to give Beyond a good reason, more than 'just' seeing death from birth. More than that, I wanted to show everyone and have them feel what he went through, all the way up to and __**through**__ that moment of breaking. Hopefully I've accomplished that even a little, here._

_Perhaps needless to say, here is where we break into the canon. Before now we were purely prequel, and everything was building up to what we've seen in the __Death Note__ series and __Another Note__. That's going to change, as between this chapter and the next is when the events seen in __Another Note__ occur. Yes, a big time jump. So if somehow you've gotten this far and not read the novel, and don't want it completely spoiled for you, go read it before reading chapter 11. Actually, go read it if you already have anyway, it's a good book. ;D_

_One very brief announcement before I leave the rest to anyone interested in reading my excuses (if you're not, you can skip the rest after this). I have my very first Poll posted. It's something I would value everyone's opinion on, and it will only take a minute or two of your time, and I've already stolen how many hours? ;3_

_**My Excuses:**__ 1) Anime Oasis. Yes, I know, it was over a LONG time ago, and I was meant to post before leaving, but the convention came with a kind of 'energy drain bubble' of a couple weeks before and after. As it is now, I'm not completely up to snuff, but I'm getting there._

_2) New projects. Not just writing, (although there are __**many**__ of those), but new cosplay for myself and my sister, planning for future trips and conventions, doujinshi editing and prep, NaNoWriMo planning (3 ½ months till and counting), and the project referred to in the Poll. O_o Much busy-ness._

_3) I'm in love. …Wait, what? You heard me, everyone. As odd as it seems, (to me at least), I've found someone who not only accepts the weird, the dorky, and the darkly psychotic in me, but embraces it and has much of that in themselves as well. Who is it? None other than Voice of the Shadow Realm, one of my Betas. Why am I using this as an excuse for why a chapter took a long time to write? Well, trying to write something so dark and mind rending is difficult when you're as happy as I have been over the last month or so. ^/^_

_More details on all of these can be found on my newly re-done Profile page or through the links found there._

_**Thank you everyone for reading. I'm happy to be back, and hope to have Chapter 11 up without as much delay as Chapter 10. Only 3 chapters to go!**_


	11. Insane

_**A/N:**__ So, anyone who has ever reviewed one of my fics could say - with much chagrin, I'm sure - that I reply to every single one. At least, all the ones that aren't anon reviews, because I physically *can't* answer those unless I somehow track the person down. (Only been done twice, thus far. ;D) Unfortunately, I've been so busy with my many, many projects and life in general (job, family, sudden heat stroke - joke) that I've been lax in getting to them promptly, allowing them to build for a few weeks and then answering them all at once. -.-; As insane as that may seem - and is - it has made me realize one very important fact:_

_I have the best readers ever. ^/^_

_Seriously, you guys have all been so good to me over the past 10 months of this fic, it's really quite humbling. This fic has passed nearly every held record in the stats of other stories, and I well and truly appreciate all of the support. I've tried over the last couple weeks to think of a way to give back for all the encouragement (besides writing more, ;D) and what I've come up with is a kind of Q&A for the last A/N2 in Chapter 13. Anything anyone wants to ask about the story, about the 'behind the scenes' of the story, about *gasp* me (within reason), I'm up to answer and post in the 'credits' of the final chapter. Think of it as a kind of Bonus Feature on a DVD. ^^ Anyone wanting to send in a question, or many questions, please do so in a review. If you want to be anonymous, that's totally fine! Sign out before leaving one, or PM me if you want it to be __**really**__ anonymous. (I won't name names in the answering.) I'm going to try and set a deadline for the final chapter… mid-October. *dies* And anything not answered by the end of Chapter 12… assume that it won't be. It's not definite, but safer to assume that. So! Get your brains a-working, anything you've wanted to know, now's the time to start asking! :D_

_On a more official note, this chapter comes with a very slight added warning. In the last installment I actually made Word twitch a little with the sentence structure. I never thought I could get a dirty look from software. Well, I've done it again, here, and as an added piece of fun, I do it with numbers, too! Prepare for some statistics, math, and a mix of math and the alphabet which may make no sense! XD_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

_**Music:**_ Welcome Home (Sanitarium) _by __Metallica, _Time of Dying _by Three Days Grace, _Mad World _by Michael Andrew and Gary Jules._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for graphic and disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both __Death Note__ and __Death Note: Another Note__._

_**Disclaimer: **__Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

...

What's My Name?

Part Eleven, "Insane"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_There is a pleasure in being mad which none but madmen know."  
~ John Dryden ~_

...

Los Angeles is the tenth largest megacity in the world. With a population of a little over 17,900,000 it weighs heavily on the global scale of gathered humanity. In the western world, it's only fourth in line from the top. Covering 12,561 square kilometers, the average number of people per square kilometer is 1,425. With so many jostling and elbowing each other for space, crime rates are understandably high.

In 2002 there were approximately 17,000 robberies, 32,000 aggravated assaults, 80,000 vehicle thefts, 1,500 reports of forcible rape, and 140,000 counts of property crimes. There were also 34,110 arsons, 654 murders and 37 successful suicides for those 20 years of age and younger. Only one case in this year in LA, spanning three murders, one arson, and one failed attempt at suicide, received the attentions of L, and only four people knew he that had ever been involved. Quillish Wammy, known to the world simply as 'Watari', the suspended FBI agent Naomi Misora who had been his hands and eyes in the field, L himself, and the perpetrator. It was what came to be known as the Los Angeles BB Murder Cases. The one caught and convicted for the bizarre killings it involved was a young man masquerading as a detective and calling himself Rue Ryuzaki. During his processing he admitted the name was an alias and that his true name was 'Beyond Birthday'.

Beyond Birthday was confined in a high security prison in LA. If one knew the details of his crimes, the peculiar clues, the treatment of the bodies of his victims, and the basic psychological profile the investigators had drawn up on him, it wouldn't be a surprise to learn that he was also kept in solitary confinement. This wasn't for the protection of other inmates from him. It wasn't because the state psychologists had labeled him insane, for if they had, he would have been sent to a psychiatric hospital, not a prison. In point of fact, they had _wanted_ to do that very thing, but Beyond Birthday had eluded that much. It had been difficult getting himself into prison. The question of his mental stability hadn't even been the first real hurdle. Neither had it been the trail.

The first obstacle in getting the killer known as Beyond Birthday behind bars had been keeping him alive.

The last victim in his short list of serial killings was meant to be himself. The first was freelance writer Believe Bridesmaid by strangulation, with roman numerals carved into his body after death. The second was thirteen-year-old Quarter Queen by blunt force trauma to the head, followed by the postmortem removal and crushing of her eyeballs. Third came the young bank clerk Backyard Bottomslash, first stabbed to death and then the left arm and right leg removed. And the fourth victim was meant to be Beyond Birthday, by immolation; burning to death.

_The fourth… Fourth… Four… Four equals 1 + 3, 1 + 3 equals 13, 13 equals B…_

In his cell, the convicted murderer Beyond Birthday lay in his cot, staring into nothingness. There were no contacts to disguise the color of his eyes, now. Not that anyone ever volunteered to get close enough to see. If any had, and stood directly in front of him and leaned close, there would have been no reaction whatsoever from him. He was awake, his eyes were open, but he didn't _see_. He wasn't aware of his surroundings. No more than he was aware of the passage of time or the inane routine of his life.

His life… Beyond shifted on his cot, new, still raw skin catching on the rough linens.

It should have been his death, he reflected, gazing into some shattered place within his own mind. He should have died. If not in apartment 404 in Pasadena, then in the ambulance, or the hospital. It had been planned - oh! how carefully planned, it was beautiful how well it had all come together…

_Together, apart, add, subtract… shuffle the numbers, mix the names, play your cards and don't let them read your eyes, the eyes are what read the numbers and names…_

The fucking surgeons had been too skilled, too determined, and BB suspected, _too well paid_ to let him die. They'd fought the Reaper fiercely to save a life he had been more than willing to lose. They'd stolen his death and forced him to continue living.

It was too much for an all but convicted killer to expect. It was more than the state standard would allow for the rescue someone destined for jail, and who quite possibly may face lethal injection and death in any case. Why not just let him die on the table, or 'accidentally' allow him to become infected? The condition he had been in, it would take very, very little to tip the scales back in Death's favor. It's not what the local government wanted bandied about, but the truth was that people were only human. If someone thought that the world would be a better place without him, who's to say they wouldn't take it upon themselves to see it so?

But that hadn't happened, and double-curse them for their humanitarianism, whether it had been the product of true nobility or anonymously given monetary gain. The best doctors, the best treatment, the best hospital to be found in all of Los Angeles County, and all carried out with such an air of secrecy… It practically screamed of L and the Wammy House. They had found him, just as he had intended for them to, but not with the same result as he'd envisioned. Now they had their hands back in his life again, when it was so tantalizingly close to ending.

"_Have you ever considered the path of a doctor?"_

Oh. Voices again. Familiar ones. Maybe they would have died if Beyond Birthday could have just killed himself.

They'd saved him, pulled him back out of the grave he had dug for himself and then congratulated each other for their cleverness and their goodness. Then instead of the blissful peace of eternal sleep and the deep down pleasure of _winning_, he'd gone through the long, torturous process of healing and rehabilitation.

Third degree burns had covered a good deal of his body, and they were the worst in terms of damage. It was where gasoline and flame had dug in deep and burned though skin, connective tissue and fat, all the way down to muscle. In some places even muscle had been crisped like a roast.

BB's patched and twisted lips drew back in a sardonic grin.

B - B - Q. Henh.

No, those places weren't so bad. They required skin grafts, extensive ones to re-cover the exposed flesh and enough stitches to hold together a king-sized quilt, but they didn't _hurt_. Third degree burns didn't hurt because the nerves had been burned away as well. No nerves, no pain. The second and first degree, those were agony. Places that weren't black and charred, but that blistered and ruptured and flowed with pus and blood… those were bad.

Healing was slow, but he hardly noticed. Rehabilitation, slowly breaking in new skin so it didn't heal too rigidly and bind his movements, it was all a blur. Eventually the doctors observing him for signs of infection were replaced with nurses who watched him to make sure he didn't kill himself.

He'd tried once before.

He might try again, and deprive a jury the satisfaction.

Can't have that.

They needn't have bothered. There would be no point in killing himself, now. The truth was, even if he had died in the ambulance speeding him to the ER, it would have been meaningless. He'd been found out, caught, captured. He'd failed, and now his death served no purpose.

If anything, now that he was caught, it best served his cause to stay alive. Alive and convicted, and as horrifying an example of humanity as possible.

If the surgeons had deprived him of his death, they had at least given him one gift in return. And it wasn't his life; the continued privilege of breathing. No, they gave by taking. They'd finally removed his disguise.

Fire and heat had stripped him of flesh, of the costume he'd worn all his life that portrayed him as _human_, and finally, finally revealed what his eyes had only hinted at:

He was a monster.

Not human at all, he didn't even look human. Now his eyes weren't the only sign of his true nature, but were a mere highlight in a body that screamed it. Only macabre patches where human skin had been sewed into him by highly skilled flesh seams mistresses still possessed the appearance of normality. Of humanity.

He was well aware his appearance, as well as the information in his case file and the rumors it generated. It was why the guards drew lots for who would work his row. He frightened them, and not just because of what he was.

"_You aren't scared?"_

"_Why would I be? …Not like you're a monster or anything."_

Keeping him alive was only the first hurdle after putting the cuffs on him. Once they had him, they had to make sure they kept him.

This step should have been ludicrously simple. In normal cases where the bad guy is caught, they try to escape again as soon as possible. Who wants to spend their life in prison? But Beyond Birthday wasn't interested in evading incarceration. His failure was complete, now he wanted a smaller victory. Putting him in jail when he was trying to help the process should have been a speedy procedure.

Going into court, the burns still not quite healed, the twisting and puckering of his skin visible wherever he wasn't covered by the orange jumpsuit, slouched and limping from a stiff knee, he'd _felt_ the people around him draw back. The Judge, a middle-aged and graying woman named Georgina Newton, (73, 7, 1, 3, 22, 12), had done her best to keep a straight face when asking for a plea. She'd almost managed.

Pleading 'guilty' should have cut through the hoopla. It still would have been a little bumpy, it was a bureaucracy, after all. Except his defense attorney, (_Hoyt Hilyard_; 81, 2, 1, 1, 3, 4, 5), was on some sort of a mission and insisted he undergo an evaluation by the court psychiatrist to ascertain his ability to put forth a plea himself.

He wanted to win, and he wanted to put forth a plea of insanity.

It was so ironic that Beyond had wanted to laugh. But he couldn't laugh, not yet. Not for real. If he laughed, then he _would_ go insane. Even after three years, it still waited to consume him.

His own actions and motivations were against him, but he was still B. He was still a Wammy House orphan. He was smarter than the one assessing him, knew how to dodge around the questions, knew how to hold it together long enough to make it through. He aced the evaluation, and was proclaimed mentally stable and fit to assist in his own defense.

When the insanity defense was denied, his attorney had tried to lighten his sentence by pointing out that he had drugged his victims before killing them. At least, he argued, he was a _compassionate_ killer.

… Not only determined to win, but a complete idiot as well.

The judge had appeared ready to toss it out almost as soon as the attorney said it, but it was BB's addition to the argument that had her practically throw the two of them physically out of the courtroom. Even his idiot defense lawyer had looked ill.

He drugged his victims, yes, but that was for his own safety, not their comfort. Where was the fun in it if you were injured? And in any case, the drug was a cocktail of his own. It pacified those it was injected to, but it didn't necessarily knock them unconscious. They were immobile, but that didn't mean they were _unaware_.

Whether it was true or not, no one questioned. When one freely admits to atrocities, it never occurs to ask if they're telling the truth. Why would he lie about torturing his victims, when doing so only increased the chances of a death penalty? They assumed it was true, and acted accordingly.

And now he was here. Behind bars. He had a home at last that he didn't have to worry about losing. They would be working very hard to keep him. That they didn't believe "Beyond Birthday" was his real name barely factored into his processing. Performing background checks only found a past carefully sponged away - he could thank the Wammy House for that - and asking him only got them the same name over and over. It didn't matter, in the end he was just a number.

"_Once you come here… you don't have a name."_

"_Just like us."_

And what was there left to do? All of his plans had reached this conclusion: a convicted serial killer scarred almost beyond recognition. Now there was no more planning that could be done, no more deliciously complex puzzles to construct… he'd failed. He'd failed in his revenge against L. All that was left to him was to be a burr under L's skin, to itch and irritate, but remain forever unreachable.

Well, not quite unreachable. If the great detective would condescend to come into contact with the common folk, he could have his opportunity to scratch. Beyond just had to wait.

Just wait. Wait and think, think and remember, remember and dream… The core piece of Beyond Birthday that was still the boy known as B retreated back into the dark corners of his splintered mind. It was the only way to survive, now. Not in a physical sense, but a psychological one. It was the only way to keep the tenuous hold he had kept on his senses over the last three years. Before there had always been something external to occupy him, something to be moving forward to. Now he was at a standstill, as was his mind. With no productive movement, it was left to spin uselessly and chew itself to pieces.

B hid from the carnage that raged and echoed inside his own skull.

Beyond Birthday, with nothing to look forward to but one event that may never come, relived his past.

"_We're meant to be the next generation of greats."_

"_Oddity is the norm."_

"_Such a complete freak that it amazes me he hasn't killed himself."_

"_None of you have names for a good reason."_

"_You mean he hardly noticed __**you**__…"_

"'_Bartram' isn't my name."_

"_He thinks he's L already."_

"_They're making new graves for us."_

"_I am L."_

"_B… what __**happened?**__"_

…

It had all been so perfect. It would have worked. L would have been broken at last, Beyond would have proved himself more than a piece of L's puzzle. It was all so carefully laid out: the names of the dead, the clues he had left - the ones meant as real messages and those left to _look_ like messages and the ones meant to look like they were meant to look like messages… So many layers, each delicately stacked, one atop the other. All for L to follow, all for him to dance along, believing he knew everything.

All for nothing.

And why? What brought it all crashing down at the last possible second?

Not cleverness or logic or reasoning. A flash of inspiration.

Naomi Misora.

L's eyes, L's hands, L's shield. L's _pawn_.

A woman suspended from the FBI for not being able to pull a trigger, a disgraced agent on the outs with her own agency, and from what he understood, not terribly popular when she _had_ been in its good graces. What was it they called her? Misora Massacre? It was easy to see why L had chosen her as his field man. People on the fringes were so much easier to manipulate, weren't they?

Misora… The stupid, government trained cookie-cutter agent that she was. Just having a lick of initiative and creativity was enough to set her apart, make her a more palatable choice than her fellow agents for L to use, but she was still far below what Beyond would consider a fair opponent. How many clues did he have to spoon feed her, how close had he gotten to giving himself away in the process, and how many had he had to leave 'undiscovered' because to point them out would be too suspicious?

How many volumes of _Akazukin Chacha_? 13. 13 = B. Which volumes had been missing? 4 and 9. 4 + 9 = 13. Right there, in the first murder scene was a re-enforcement of the initials 'B.B.' That one was lost. Whether or not the secondary clue in Quarter Queen's crushed eyes reached L, he didn't know, but it was most certainly lost on Misora, who never knew the color of 'Rue Ryuzaki's' eyes. The girl's age had seemed so obvious that Beyond had actually been too embarrassed to point it out. The locked rooms were a puzzle, as well as a distraction. What better way to get a detective's attention than by leaving a classic detective novel trick?

Yes… so many little messages for L, to let him know past all doubt that this was his old heir committing murder, that this was their own private war. All lost on Misora. And if she couldn't find _those_, then finding any real clues would be far-fetched at best.

A flash of inspiration ruined everything. Not intelligent reasoning, but just letting a bored mind wander and _stumbling_ on the answer.

Stupid cow.

…

13 equals B, but B was only the second letter in the alphabet, so equaled 2… L was the twelfth, so L = 12, 12 = L. 13 came just after L. L = 12, 12 = 1 + 2 = 3, and 3 = C… B = 13, B = 1 + 3 = 4, and 4 = D. 13 = B, and also equaled M, the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, which _still_ came after L…

It was always so close, so close to being the perfect match, the perfect reflection, but just a little off. Frustrating.

A sound rattled down the hall just outside Beyond's cell. Lazily he raised his eyes, caught sight of the young guard who'd drawn the short straw in coming to check on him. _Jonathan Marr_; 24, 3, 1, 5, 16, 22, 15. From his face, he wasn't much older than 20 now…

Beyond wondered vaguely what it was that would kill him. As the man-boy hurriedly withdrew from the red stare directed at him from behind bars, he decided it would probably be some mistake made at the prison, made out of nervousness or fear. Such things got you killed easily, here.

Not that it would matter. He would die, whatever the cause.

Beyond had never found out for certain how Any had managed to escape the fate of his numbers. How it was that Any had died fifty-one years before he was meant to. In the time between running from Wammy's House and setting his plan into motion, he'd tried to figure that out. It was important to understand, not just for his own peace of mind, but from a practical standpoint. How would he prove himself better than L if someone else defied their lifespan, not by dying too soon, but by surviving when their labels said they were meant to die? It was a key point, not one to be brushed aside by laziness or oversight. Or squeamishness.

He dreamt of more than just fires, now. More than the heat and smoke and not being able to breathe as he listened for the sound of voices, of rescue that would never come. Now there were faces that stared back out at him, sounds of human terror, of throats trying to breathe through blood, of hard objects striking flesh. He dreamt of his kills, of the people he had murdered. They were meant to die, but understanding that and doing the deed yourself were two entirely different things. Knowing someone was going to die and that they would whether it was you helping them along or not and feeling their flesh part around the edge of a knife, watching as their names and numbers boiled away to nothing, of looking into their eyes and seeing the panic slowly seep out of them… It was like the difference between studying the body in a book and having one you can touch on table in front of you.

Sometimes he dreamt that he was the one being killed, watching himself as he was killed and killing at the same time. The last thing he saw, the last thing his victims must have seen, were those red eyes burning in a too-pale face. He saw himself reflected in them, and it was like he was drowning in angry pools of blood.

For three years, Beyond Birthday planned and practiced for the time he would make his move. He had to experiment, see if the numbers would run out no matter what, that they _would_ show the true time of death. He had to test to make sure they wouldn't let him down. Not again.

Attempts to kill anyone whose numbers were far from running out all failed, despite any method used. It was amazing what a person could live through when it wasn't their time, what could still be considered technically 'alive'. Conversely, trying to keep someone alive was impossible when the sands of their lifetime ran dry.

Suicide. It was the only explanation how Any had managed to cheat the label. Why that should be, he didn't know. But if suicide had worked for Any, then it should work for Beyond Birthday. As a final trump card, it should work. And who was to say that his choice of times to murder himself wouldn't coincide with his intended time? Certainly he had no way of knowing, his own time was as invisible as it ever was.

And if L suspected that the one playing with his little pawn, the un-private detective calling Rue Ryuzaki was actually his missing ward 'B'… Well, he wasn't likely to suspect he was also the fourth victim. Because to be both, he would have _had_ to have committed suicide, and who would think that B - who had nightmares of burning to death - would set himself on fire?

"_Doesn't that hurt?"_

If he'd been sane, he might have been afraid.

The fire hadn't frightened him as it used to. How could something so simple hope to hold sway over him anymore? Flame was just flame, easily snuffed out. And _this_ flame…

A heavy and heavily scarred arm raised up until a pair of thin fingers held pinched together before his eyes, as though he were staring at something he'd once held. Something like a match or a lighter.

It was a lighter he held. He could see it, feel the smooth luster of the metal and the weight of it in his hand, felt along the little seam that separated the cap from the body. It was a Zippos. It had to be. There would be no risk-taking on the little details. Not now.

Beyond Birthday shivered. Not from fear or even anticipation, but from chill, and the feel of the gasoline dripping down his body. A gas can lay flung and forgotten in a corner, its contents now soaking the man standing in the center of apartment 404. He took a deep breath, the lungful of fumes making him light headed and dizzy, and threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling.

Somewhere up there was Naomi Misora, lying in wait in apartment 1313 for a killer that she had arrived with. They'd shared coffee, 'investigated' the rooms together… Misora commented that she felt as though she were being manipulated, made to dance to the killer's tune. More than she realized, she had. Poor Misora, drawn into a war not her own and made a pawn of _both_ sides.

Oh yes, they had both used the FBI agent to dance their dance, to play a part in their game, hadn't they, L? So alike in thought, they even manipulated in the same way. So alike… in many ways. So close in mind and body that Beyond sometimes wondered if the edges of their identities didn't blur, just a little, from time to time. If now and again a thought he thought was his had actually come from L, and had wound up in his brain because it couldn't tell the difference. If some of the things he saw or felt ended up as something L also experienced.

He wondered if L, feeling and seeing as he did, had enjoyed the last three murders.

The sound of the lighter opening, of flint striking and a little flame springing to life.

The tiny orange flame wavered and flickered, seeking escape, longing to consume the world but captured by metal and the grip of his fingers. Beyond gazed at it with something akin to affection. This flame would be his escape, his final escape from the world. His revenge, his retribution, his release… the soft caress of heat incarnate was something he craved, now. The amber light danced, reflected in Beyond's shadowed garnets. No contacts to hide them, he meant to die with his true self revealed. He would die a demon bathed in flame.

_Do you feel everything I do, L?_ he thought dreamily. _Are my experiences yours to cherish?_

He smiled, felt the wild laughter stir around his heart.

_Feel this._

Fingers uncurled, the lighter fell, still alight, and landed in the puddle of gasoline around his bare feet.

Searing heat engulfed him, the gas that had soaked his clothes, his hair, that coated his skin and clung to his face, it all burned, destroying the flesh beneath. Blinded by the pain and panic, Beyond Birthday tried to get away, to smother it by rolling on the ground or by slapping with his hands, all the while celebrating the final step of his plan. The final step that would outdo L. He didn't realize until later that he'd been screaming.

Then sudden cold; cold so intense and so different that it almost hurt more than the heat ripping through his skin.

The heat was gone, the cold was gone, and only pain was left. Pain, and a voice, tired but remorselessly professional. "Rue Ryuzaki, I arrest you on suspicion of the murders of Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen, and Backyard Bottomslash…"

Saved, rescued, found out, caught… Failed.

The apartment dissolved, and his cell came back to reality. Now was now, and there was no more smoke.

"_Did you fall asleep?"_

Yes, he thought he had. And now was the world of nightmares he lived in. Or maybe he had been asleep then and now was awake? Did it matter? All were equally real in the mind of the one experiencing it. Who was to say his dream wasn't someone else's reality, or vice versa? When you were a part of the mystery, how could you solve it?

"_Do you have an answer for that?"_

L's voice. L's voice in his head again, taunting him. Taunting because he was here while L was free. Free and far away, watching him like he was some kind of guinea pig in a cage.

"_I think you'll do very well here… Given time."_

He just had to wait. Eventually L would come, if only to confirm that Beyond Birthday and B, his second heir, were indeed one and the same, and were locked away tight. He was an embarrassment, a stain on the otherwise spotless reputation of L. Even if the entire world remained ignorant of B's personal role in the detective's life, that he, who was meant to be a copy had gone so horribly awry, it was enough that _L_ knew. He knew, and his self-perpetuating vanity would never let him sit and leave it be. He would come. L would come. Until then, he just had to survive.

In his cell, Beyond Birthday waited; in a corner of his mind, B survived.

_**...  
**_

_**A/N2:**__ Oh, how I love black humor and sarcasm. ^^_

_**Metric Conversions:**__ 12,561 square kilometers = 4,850 square miles. Which would mean there's about 3,690 people per square mile._

_**Statistics:**__ All of the statistics found right at the beginning are true and as accurate as I could make them. Had to cruise quite a few places to find them all, and wherever there was one stat in more than once place (say, exact population) there was always a little variation, so I either picked the one I thought more reliable or split the difference and used the average._

_**Death Penalty:**__ From what I could find, yes, the death penalty __**is**__ used in California. (For the non-US folks who are unaware, the severity of punishments for crimes is decided on a state-by-state basis.) While the gas chamber used to be the default method if the condemned failed to choose one himself, that was ruled as cruel and unusual and was switched to lethal injection. From what I understand, a prisoner can still __**choose**__ the gas chamber if they prefer._

_**Misora:**__ Yes, I know that Misora figured it all out through a stroke of inspiration __**and**__ because Beyond slipped with the capoeira, but this is Beyond's POV we're seeing. He's allowed to ignore that and just be mad at her. ;D_

_And I find it amusing that 13 = B, and M = 13, so M = B and B = M. As one of my betas pointed out, it's somewhat ironic that Mello ended up being the one to tell us Beyond Birthday's story. Maybe someday I'll write something up to explore the many similarities I see between those two._

_**Once again, thank you all! I shall see you in Chapter 12, don't forget to send me your questions! :D**_


	12. Human

_**A/N:**__ Okay, so this is __**massively**__ overdue. I'm sorry about that, everyone. My only real excuse is that this chapter I have been in the process of writing for - literally - a year and a half. Ever since this story first started taking a firm shape in my mind, I've been writing down bits and pieces of it and plotting out how it would flow… and not all of it fit together very neatly. Or was easy to find again after 18 months or so. So sitting down and trying to stick it all together and make it flow not only within itself and all that came before it… yeah. That's my excuse. And I'm sticking to it. As for reviews I have yet to reply to… I have no excuse. I'm a horrible person. I'll get to them eventually, I promise, they're still in my Inbox and stare at me accusingly whenever I check. -.-;_

_Anyway. Here it is. The chapter we've all been waiting for, and the last 'real' chapter to the story. The one after this will be an epilogue, for all intents and purposes. …It's quite an epic feeling for me. A couple little notes in __**A/N2**__ at the bottom, stick around for those. Also, two added warnings for this chapter. One, the level of gory description has been raised somewhat, so be prepared. And two, this chapter made __**both**__ of my betas cry. Have tissues ready._

_And enjoy, my lovelies. ^^_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

_**Music:**_ Let You Down _by Three Days Grace__, _Outside _by Staind, _Gollum's Song (LotR: The Two Towers soundtrack) _by Emiliana Torrini, _Dirge (Death Note OST) _by Yoshihisa Hirano and Hideki Taniuchi._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for very graphic and disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both __Death Note__ and __Death Note: Another Note__._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

…

What's My Name?

Part Twelve, "Human"

Raven Ehtar

…

"_The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success."  
~ Bruce Feirstein ~_

…

Patricia Weeks, Warden of the California state prison in Los Angeles County. She ran a facility that housed - on average - 19,000 inmates and the staff that was required to watch, feed, clothe and clean up after them. It was equipped to take charge of offenders that ranked from minimum to high security, and was the largest penitentiary in the United States. All major decisions came down to her, every inmate file passed through her hands, all complaints from inmates, guards, or the high up muckety-mucks in the government landed on her desk. It wasn't what she had imagined for herself when she was younger, but for the most part she enjoyed it. It was a career where she felt she could make a positive difference, and was miles better than bussing tables or scanning groceries.

There were downsides, of course. There was the infighting and skirmishes between inmates - a common problem in any prison, multiplied many times here due to sheer size - the laughably small yearly budget they were allowed to run their facility, and the growing problem of overcrowding. The overcrowding was the issue most on her mind these days. Warden Weeks was reminded of it every time she came into work, trying to logically house so many souls in a set of buildings that could comfortably take in about four fifths of what they had, and with more coming in every day. Add to that outside pressure being brought to bear from both private and government organizations that something must be down about the issue, with her continued employment as Warden being used as… _encouragement_.

When the two men currently standing in her office had come in, that was the issue that had come immediately to mind. She had had some little warning of their arrival - 10 minutes worth to be exact - and the tone of the email hadn't filled her with morning sunshine. Her visitors would be coming in on 'official business', it had said, and would be desirous to see one Beyond Birthday currently in her custody.

Anyone wanting to see that particular inmate made Weeks nervous. Birthday was known in the facility as one of their 'problem children', one who refused to integrate within the system and who couldn't even limp through the day to day routine without causing one problem or another. In the end, he was one they had had to relegate to solitary confinement. He had seemed, when they had initiated the change in his housing, to be more grateful than anything, but as time went on, the lack of human contact had only made his behaviors and mental state degrade further. It was both a solution and a problem, one that they had all seen coming, but one no one could see an alternative to. Beyond Birthday wasn't the first example of this kind of situation, though he was rapidly becoming one of the more extreme ones.

So when a pair of men on 'official business' arrived in her office to see him, her first thought was that they were there to ascertain his condition and his treatment and draw up some kind of paper on the poor conditions in her facility. It was something she was half-expecting in any case, and while there were plenty of good reasons why things were being done the way they were, none of them were likely to make any difference to those who were there only to see what was wrong.

However, having gotten a good look at them and hearing their proposal, she was less concerned of official scrutiny and more of their legitimacy, not to mention their sanity.

In appearance, they were a horribly mismatched pair. One was a… well, the only word was 'gentleman', immaculately dressed in a dark suit and tie, and a long overcoat, which even in winter was a little bit much for Southern California temperatures. He stood easily, spine straight and exuding an attentive, confident air, his every line emanating relaxed competence. His companion, however…

If Weeks had been feeling particularly vindictive, she would have said that he looked as though he belonged on one of her rows, on the wrong side of a lock. Far from his companion's professional attire, this one wore dirty sneakers, loose, too-low jeans that bordered on gangster, and a baggy, dark gray hooded sweatshirt. More than his attire, though, his attitude was what made Weeks feel uneasy about him. Work long enough in the justice system and you developed a feel for such things, and this guy felt _wrong_. Where the first gentleman seemed calm and easy, despite his trim posture, the second one was as tense as a wire. Outwardly he was more relaxed than the first, his shoulders hunched forward, his spice curved in a lazy line, and even his knees bent a little, as though his slight weight was too much for them, but Weeks could feel the nervous energy coming from him. He appeared shorter than the man in the suit, who was slightly shorter than median height for a male, but his stooping posture made it difficult to tell.

What made her question their veracity, however, was also the one thing that seemed to unite them. Neither man was allowing their face to be seen. For the well-dressed one, this was achieved by a wider-than-average brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, obscuring the top portion of his face, and the collar of his coat turned up for the lower portion. For the scruffier of the two, he simply wore the hood of his jacket up and pulled down low. It, too, was apparently larger than average, and did an admirable job of obscuring his features. The overall effect was rather like having her office visited by a film noir back-alley spy and the Unabomber.

It didn't inspire confidence.

"Let me see if I understand you two… gentleman correctly," she said, meaning the term for one of the two. "You mean to interview the inmate Beyond Birthday, and wish to convey a sense of privacy to him, in order to have him relax and speak openly, yes?"

"That is correct," replied the suit. He had a voice that marked him as being slightly older, though not elderly as yet. Tone and timbre pitched to be reassuring and well-mannered, it was hard not to take a liking to him based on his voice. His accent was a little hard to place. Weeks thought at first it was simply British, or perhaps western European, but something else was muddled in there, as well. Not difficult to understand, but definitely not a born and raised American.

Thus far the other had not spoken a single word, though Weeks thought it likely he was the younger of the two.

"From the papers you have given me," she continued, shuffling a few of the mentioned pages that lay across her desk, "you have the clearance of all the required people to request this, signed, stamped and checked. Which is impressive, given how quickly it appears to have been put together. I wouldn't have thought that anyone could get through all the bureaucratic red tape so fast without being a son of the DA, the Governor or both."

Neither of the men reacted to the observation. No chuckle, to shift in weight, no self-depreciating coughs.

"From these," she continued, a little irked, "there would be no problem in letting you interview Mr. Birthday. He's not the most talkative of our lot, but you would be free to see what you could get out of him." Her face hardened from the understanding mask to something a little more like the Warden Weeks that was needed to run the LA County Penitentiary. "However, some of the _conditions_ that you have _required_ be set in place to conduct your interview…"

"We realize," the elder man interrupted smoothly, "that they are somewhat outside the normal procedure, Warden Weeks. But if you will peruse those documents again, I'm sure that you will find that they are covered in the authorizations listed."

Weeks didn't bother to look again as suggested. "Yes, they are. But you see, _I_ still have some authority, and frankly, I find these things you and your… partner are asking for are just a little bit beyond what could be considered reasonable." She straightened out the sheaf of papers she had been handed, set them aside neatly, and folded her hands on her desk. She was a tidy person by nature and necessity, and she found that conveying this impression, especially when turning down a request, went a long way to sidestepping any arguments.

"Giving Mr. Birthday a sense of privacy, that's no problem. We have plenty of interrogation rooms at our disposal, and you are welcome to any of them. The request that none of the guards be within 100 meters of the room is somewhat unusual, but not outside the feasible, nor is the request that your presence in this facility being kept on a need-to-know only basis." Her expression darkened. "However, the request to remove all of our video and sound recording equipment, to say nothing of having no backup on the other side of the one-way mirror, is a mite more than I'm willing to OK. Not to mention the questionable state of your identities."

It was hard to lock eyes with someone whose face was hidden, but Weeks did her best to do just that, focusing on where she judged the man's eyes to be in the shadows between hat and collar. They stayed that way for some time, and Weeks found the greatest challenge was that she started to feel ridiculous, staring down a shadow.

When a voice cut through, Weeks was surprised to realize that it came from the Unabomber-wannabe.

"Warden Weeks," he said, "please understand, our reasons for being here are not frivolous. We would not have gone to so much trouble, or have bothered you in your daily work, if our reasons were not very good. We understand your dilemma, truly." He shifted a little bit, transferring his weight to one foot and itching the back of his leg with the freed one.

Weeks was recalculating her estimation of his age. She had already thought him younger than his companion, but now she was thinking him much younger, barely out of his teens, maybe. The way he spoke wasn't an unsure stumble of the very young, but his voice was soft, bordering on mumbling, his consonants fuzzy and the distinction of one word from another muddled. It made guessing his exact age difficult.

"What we require," he continued, still in his assertive murmur, "is both unusual and somewhat risky. It goes against protocol, and undermines your authority in your own facility. Asking you to swallow all of that _and_ accept our anonymity is quite a lot. Understand, however," he hunched down further, which Weeks somehow took as his way of forcing home an important point, rather than straightening as most people would, "this is how it _must be_. We are here to interview this prisoner of yours on behalf of L. I trust you are familiar with him?"

Warden Weeks sat back in her seat, the wood groaning slightly. Know L? Was there anyone even remotely connected with law that _didn't_ know L? With him added to this odd picture, many things made much more sense. The secrecy of their identities and faces, their interest in the prisoner Beyond Birthday, the very short notice received before they'd arrived… She looked over the two figures standing in her office again, in light of the new information.

For representatives of L the Great, they weren't what she would have expected, had she given it any thought before they'd arrived. But she supposed that, in its own way, _was_ to be expected. Why would the shadowed detective send people that were obviously from him?

"I'm familiar with the name," she said at last, pinching the bridge of her nose with a sigh. "What is it, exactly, that L wants with our problem child?"

It was the elder man who answered her question, his tone still amiable, but firm. "I'm afraid that that is a matter between ourselves, L, and Beyond Birthday. The nature of our involvement with him is sensitive. The fact that we, L's representatives, are even here should be kept as much a secret as is possible. Do we have an understanding, Warden?"

Which was as polite a way to say that she should forget that the name 'L' was mentioned at all as she was likely to get. She didn't question whether the claim that the detective was involved was true or not simply because it would be a reckless for anyone to do so if it weren't true. L was not known for tolerating impersonators, and he made sure those who attempted it became well known for their ill-advised attempt. "We do," she said simply. Feeling suddenly very tired, she stood, pushing herself up from her desk, not looking at either of L's stand-ins.

"I'll see to it that everything is arranged to your specifications. Please wait here. It's one of the more comfortable rooms in the facility, and this may take some time." Thinking of something that had yet to be brought up, Weeks looked at the two men, a little lost on how to breach the subject. "You are aware… or you have been told about the… condition of Beyond Birthday? Of his current mental state?"

It was the Unabomber who answered. "We are aware, Warden. It does not change our need to see him, or the manner which we have outlined in which the interview must take place."

She nodded, quirking an eyebrow at the hooded boy. Despite his apparent youth and the startling contrast between the two men in bearing and appearance, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was the boy who was the 'leader' out of the two, rather than the suit. "And may I assume that this is a one-off event?" she asked. "That L or his doubles won't be making frequent visits?"

The boy appeared ready to reply, but the elder man beat him to it. "Rest assured, Warden. This will be the one and only time such a visit will take place."

Again Weeks nodded, curtly, and strode past her guests to the door. Now that the issue of what was to be done was resolved, she wanted it over and done with as soon as possible, and get back to the relative peace of overcrowding issues and finding a better system for discovering shanks before they were used. Such things were taking on a rosier hue in comparison to dealing with L and his proxies.

Left alone to wait until everything was prepared for them, the two 'representatives' allowed themselves to relax somewhat. It was a subtle change at best, and one they would only notice in each other.

Rubbing his sockless toes together uncomfortably in his beaten sneakers, L shifted again and looked at Watari askance. "That was somewhat unpleasant," he commented drily.

The elder man nodded, automatically making sure that the motion did not expose his face, even though there was no one to see it besides L. "It was, although I am of the opinion that this entire fiasco is an unpleasant one."

"This again, Watari?" L sounded tired beneath his hood. He walked, shuffling in the sneakers that were ill-fitting to his feet, until he was behind Weeks' desk, looking over her neat arrangement of papers and files, the tidy little cluster of photos of her family nestled into one corner. "We are here now," he said quietly, so his voice wouldn't carry. "There's no point in leaving now before seeing B."

Safely hidden by the shadows of hat and collar, Watari pulled a face. "One could say that there is no point in seeing him at all." He sighed. "But I won't argue the point. My concern is the method. Why do you have to see him alone?"

For a moment L didn't reply, but looked over the smiling faces of the Weeks family, caught on film and arranged prosaically behind glass and between frames. Bits and pieces of lives, lovingly preserved and displayed as a reminder for the Warden of what it was she worked for each day: Happiness and order. "This was a private battle between us," he said at last. "It should be concluded in the same way."

"It's unsafe, ill-advised," Watari argued. "Going in with a proven killer in a closed space with no way for those on the outside to see or hear what's going on? What if he makes an attempt on you? We won't know outside the interrogation room, and you'll be left to fend for yourself."

L shifted, uncomfortable thoughts filtering through his mind. "I can handle myself if it comes to that, Watari. And I seriously doubt that it will."

Watari - Quillish Wammy - stared at his ward. The costume he had chosen for coming out where people would be able to see him hid his face and expression, but he didn't need to see it to know how much L had changed in the last four years, and the last six months in particular. He'd grown thinner, paler, all the last remnants of baby fat that had survived puberty and the stresses of the boy's calling had melted under the stress of this case. The bags under his eyes were deeper and darker, the bend in his spine a little steeper… entire weeks went by without the elder man catching him sleeping, and when he did it was always at his computer, in his perching sit. He would never say so, but this case disturbed him more deeply than any other.

"L," he said softly, "he's a killer. We know this. He has killed all in the name of getting to you. Beyond Birthday hates you to the extent of committing murder, what makes you think he won't try to kill _you_ if you are presented to him?"

The detective stilled further, the small wanderings of his fingers over the desk and its contents stilling. After a moment a bony hand dove into a pocket and came out with a pure white sugar cube. Snaking the hand and its prize past the hem of his hood, he popped the sugar into a waiting mouth and crunched it loudly. When the sweetness was completely devoured, he held out a small device for Watari to see. It was square, smaller than a pager, and had only one button set in its side. "Should things get out of hand, I'll use this. One press and your phone will ring from the same line of my personal phone. Think of it as a panic button." He pocketed the small device, and muttered, half to himself, "Though I highly doubt I shall have need of it."

Watari sighed. There would be no preventing the meeting, what he considered an unnecessary risk to L's personal safety. He'd been arguing with L over the scheme since he had first proposed the idea a week before, there would be no stopping him now. Or even any alteration made to it, it seemed.

"What is it you hope to accomplish here, L?"

L looked away, out a window that overlooked the acres that the correctional facility covered. Building after building, a small city of punishing sin, L was very aware that he didn't belong here, mired in its darkness. _Why was he here?_

"I don't know."

...

Beyond Birthday sat uncomfortably in the stark little interrogation room, staring at his own bare feet while he waited for his visitor. He called it stark, but really it wasn't any more or less severe than any other such room he had ever been in, and he suspected that they were the same wherever you went in the world. From the richest society to the poorest, the chambers where the suspected, the guilty, and the good as guilty were questioned would all be one and the same room. Small, bare walls save for a door in one and a long 'mirror' in another which was really only a one-way piece of glass, so people on the other side could watch what was happening within. A table, roughly rectangular, but closer to square given how small it was, a dirty little trash can in a corner, and two chairs, positioned so the mirror could 'see' both clearly. Beyond already sat in one, knees close to chest, and had pushed his seat away from the table and against the wall upon entering so he could rest his head against the bricks behind him if he wanted.

The other chair was still empty, but he wasn't alone as he waited. One of the guards that had escorted him from his cell across campus had stayed to keep watch over him. Why they didn't just have someone posted on the other side of the one-way he didn't know, and only vaguely wondered at. The logistics of a prison were rather arbitrary from time to time, and Beyond had long since grown bored with them. The sooner this little disruption in his personal routine was done with the better he would like it. Then he could sink back into featureless limbo.

The guard shifted his position beside the door, the fourth time he had done so within ten minutes. Beyond looked up and stared at him, which only made him fidget more. _Neils Egner_, 76, 9, 2, 4, 13, 32, 16, a youngish blond man with a boy's face. Obviously he didn't want to be the one who stood in the same room as the serial killer with the red eyes, despite the fact that there had never been any reports of violence from him since entering the prison, or that he was bound, so causing any trouble was prohibitively difficult, if not impossible.

He wore the standard cuffs at his wrists and ankles, with a chain strung between hands and feet. It was long enough to walk upright, but not be upright and lift his arms higher than his chest at the same time. Sitting as he did, with his feet on the seat, there was enough slack to touch his face and lift a little higher than his head, but as soon as he stood he would be limited again. The cuffs at his ankles would reduce his top speed to a quick shuffle - hence their common moniker, 'hobbles'. Additionally, he was fitted with a chain collar, like the choke chains they used to train dogs, also linked to the cuffs at his wrists. Normally it would be easy to slip off, but they had added a kind of locking catch that kept it from widening as far as it was able. Bound and restricted top and bottom, trying to use his hands beyond the slack given him by sitting would either be stopped by his feet or the chain around his throat, which would tighten and choke him if he pulled on it too hard.

And still the guard's eyes would flick from time to time, impatient to be gone and trying not to show his nerves.

Tired of the guard, Beyond went back to staring at his feet. He rubbed his toes together absently, wasn't surprised when he couldn't feel it. His feet, sitting in a puddle of gasoline when he had dropped the lighter, had taken a lot of damage. In a few places they had been burned all the way done to the bone. The nerves had never repaired themselves very well, which was common in the extremities, but meant almost no sensation, weakened motion, and extreme difficulty in walking. The fact that he was missing a few toes entirely didn't make it any easier.

Twisted flesh and missing parts… Freak.

B = 13, 13 was a very unlucky number.

Beyond wondered who his visitor would be, waggling his seven remaining toes senselessly over the edge of the seat. If it was his lawyer again it was going to be a short visit. This was exactly where he wanted to be, now, so any of his plans or loopholes could go hang. It could be a psychiatrist to re-evaluate, since he was becoming more and more 'uncooperative' as time went on. It could be some other official come to question him about past crimes they thought could be linked to him, offering him deals for information. Whether or not he had anything to do with what they had in mind, he would give no information. There would be no deals.

None of those would explain why he was in the interrogation room, however, or why he was bound as he was. There were plenty of other places he could have been taken, or any of those people could have visited him in solitary, without dragging him across the compound. There was no logical reason for this much caution. Unless everyone had become even more paranoid of him than before… He decided to test it.

"Ha ha ha ha ha h-ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa…" he laughed softly. The guard started.

Definitely more paranoid, then. Beyond almost laughed for real, but stifled it. Fake and practiced laughs were safe. Laughter that came without conscious thought, those had to be reined in hard before they got out of control.

Control was important.

There was a knock on the door. Beyond didn't look back up from his feet as the guard hurriedly opened it and spoke with whoever was on the other side. He didn't pay attention as the hard heel strikes receded and disappeared, as minutes stretched in silence, and eventually soft, almost shuffling footsteps of lighter shoes came into the room. He continued to stare at his contorted toes and fiddle with one of the links of his chains as the sounds of soft, probably cloth objects being laid on the table reached him.

He may have wondered who it was, but it was the same kind of wonder he had for what would come for the evening meal. Vague, as likely to be ignored as looked at. Why should he care who it was settling themselves into the chair on the opposite side of the table?

It wasn't until that other spoke that the phantom serpent of his past that lay quietly coiled in his chest stirred and sank it's fangs into his heart.

"Hello, B."

L watched as the man across from him froze at the sound of his voice. He readjusted himself in the metal chair he perched in and waited. Slowly, very slowly, the bowed head lifted. For the first time in four years L looked on the face of B, his heir-in-training turned runaway. He did his best not to flinch.

The damage wrought by fire was extensive, and horrible to look on. The surgeons had done their best to repair as they saved B's life, but there was only so much they could do. B's skin, which had always been pale and smooth, was darkened, roughened, puckered and twisted. Where skin grafts had to be used because flame had consumed too much to heal, the discoloration was even more pronounced, with foreign flesh and B's own melding together like melted wax.

His face wasn't free of the wounds, and in fact they seemed to congregate there, though that may have been more due to L's focus than truth. The boy's… man's… lips were distorted, pulled to one side by the scarring, which was worse on the left side. His hair, which he had once worked so hard to make look like the detective's unruly mane, was still unkempt, but laid flat to his skull. In a few places there was no hair, only naked scalp. The only place left untouched was the area just around his right eye and the top portion of the same cheek, leading back to his ear, which hadn't been so lucky. It, like its mate, now resembled melted plastic, and laid strangely against his head.

The most recognizable feature was his eyes. They had not changed, and without the dark, disguising lenses it was like a piece of the fire that had ruined him had buried itself in B's soul. Eyes reflecting blood and fire, one looked out at L from the face of a demon, the other from the face of the boy L had once known.

As realization began to take hold, a multitude of emotions washed over that twisted, distorted visage before finally settling on something like joy, and the lips pulled back into a tilted grin, baring teeth that were almost freakishly perfect, white and straight. Even without his scars, though, the smile slashed across B's face would have contained something harsh and predatory.

"Hello, L," B replied. His voice was a disconcertingly cheerful sing-song.

_He's not the same as he was,_ L reminded himself. _He's a killer._

Silence stretched between them, then, each absorbing the other's presence. L, his concealing hooded jacket on the table, kept his expression blank as B's eyes scanned him from top to bottom. He chewed on a nail, remaining silent, and tried not to think about the fact that now that he was here, he wasn't sure how to proceed.

B, for his own part, took in the seated detective an inch at a time. He was here, at last! There had been times when B's certainty had started to wane, but now L was here, and they were alone. Or - his gaze flicked briefly to the one-way mirror - they were mostly alone. Someone was always watching in this place.

L noticed the glance, spoke around his thumb. "You can speak openly here, B. There is no one in that room, and even if there were, the glass has been blocked and the audio pickups disabled." He nodded at B's blank stare. "We're completely private."

Another, smaller smile tugged at B's mouth. He nodded. "Of course. We must keep L's identity a complete secret, mustn't we? To observe him holding a private conversation that may reveal more than what a predator and prey might know of each other…" his head tilted, a vertebra popped. "Unacceptable." He straightened out again. "But if you expect me to believe that _no one_, not even one of your lackeys from the orphanage is behind the glass, then it's your turn for a head examination."

For a moment L didn't reply, but watched his old protégé with eyes as readable as marble. The stare didn't have any visible effect on the younger man, but it never had, even when he had been a child. "I have gone through a great deal of trouble to arrange this meeting, B," he said at last. "Quite a few protocols have been breached and several government officials called on to arrange it, to insure that it remained secret, _and_ that we would have privacy."

Beyond snorted softly. Say what he would, there was nothing L could say that would convince him that there was some sort of surveillance trained on them. But then, even if there was, it didn't really matter to him anymore.

Now that L was here, though, there was a question: how did he want to handle it? He'd gone over a meeting like this in his mind many times, each with a different focus, a different setting, a different outcome… but reality wasn't the same as fantasy. What little he had ever planned would crumble to pieces if he didn't tread carefully, and there wouldn't be a second chance.

"Did you enjoy it?" he finally asked.

L frowned. "What exactly are you referring to, B? Did I enjoy what?"

"The game, the game!" B said, and shook a chain for emphasis, the clattering echoing slightly in the bare room. "The game we played, L! Hunter and hunted, chaser and chased, detective and criminal, cops and robbers. I know how much you like those games in general, but it must have been a bit different playing against someone so like you." B's perfect teeth gleamed in the fluorescent lights.

L's nail clicked along his own teeth in a kind of tattoo. He'd read over the reports the prison kept on B's mental state. He'd known something of what to expect, but… "I would hardly call it a game. Using human lives, tossing them away for the sake of a puzzle, that's not a game, B."

"Pfft," he scoffed, dismissing L's rebuttal. "Don't act so high and mighty, L. What would your calling be if it didn't give you the stimulation you needed? Nothing. If you didn't enjoy it, if it wasn't… _fun_… you wouldn't do it. It's just a game to you, too."

The detective was tempted to reach into his pocket for another sugar cube. He wanted his mountains of sweets. Mouthfuls of sweet confectionary to wash away the foul taste this meeting was already leaving on his tongue. Why was he here? Quillish had asked him that and he hadn't been able to answer, and he still couldn't, not quite. There was no doubt at all that this man was a grown version of the boy who had run away four years ago. They'd found him, he was taken care of, now was time to move on, leave him to the path he'd chosen for himself. B was no longer his responsibility.

So why couldn't he stop himself from looking back over his own shoulder?

Giving in, L dug out a cube and crunched it between his teeth, the spreading sweetness offering some comfort.

Beyond flinched slightly at the noise, tried to cover it. The sound brought memories floating to the surface, stirred deep things that he wanted to stay buried. A sound that was both sharp and wet, like the crunching of bone, or the cartilage in joints ripping apart… Deep in Beyond's mind, B stirred, started to wake, to brave the shadows that lurked in his own mind. Beyond quashed him. Control, it was all about control…

"You think that I share your skewed vision of your murders?" L asked around the broken cube. "I wonder that you would be so confident in my thought processes. We've both changed considerably since Wammy's House."

"So true, so true," Beyond replied, once again in a teasing sing-song. "Years and miles and experiences all work to separate us, turn us into completely different people, don't they?" B shifted in his metal chair, making it rock and scrape the wall behind him as he tucked his knees even closer to his body, making himself into a better mirror image of the detective. The metallic clatter of the chain against the seat underscored the obvious flaws in the attempt. He grinned widely at L, the movement pulling and twisting his face grotesquely. "I like to believe that we've both changed, but in the same ways. We're so alike, L, it's hard to believe that we're not related."

"You have fallen somewhat short of becoming me, B," L retorted, twisting the words slightly. "And I am most certainly not like you."

Far from slapping him down, L's tone only encouraged Beyond. He rocked back and forth in his chair, his grin widening. "Oooh, it sounds like a challenge, L, another game. Let's play, shall we?"

"B-"

"A game of proving," Beyond continued, ignoring the attempted interruption. "A simple extension of being a detective, so it shouldn't be any trouble for you at all. Point for point, match for match, which is more, like or unlike? I'll go first. And I won't even use superficial traits like our appearances, since that was mostly contrived, anyway." He paused, looked over at his reflection in the mirror. "Not that it's even much of an issue anymore," he added.

"I won't play this with you, B."

B pouted. The effect on his features wasn't what was intended. "You've not gained much in the way of a sense of humor, have you?"

"While yours has only turned in on itself," L pointed out, still calm. "You were such a promising student, and now you're here…" The detective looked around the room sadly. "What are you now? A murderer, you've killed in the cause of furthering your own selfish agenda."

Beyond swallowed hard against the words being thrown at him. A promising student, what was he now…? Again, B came closer to the surface, closer to waking.

He shrugged, hoping L couldn't see the internal struggle he was causing. "Debatable," he replied. _Could it be 'murder' if they were due to die anyway?_ "But so have you."

"Untrue," was the quick reply.

"True," came the equally quick rejoinder. "Every criminal you have sent to these places," he waved a finger in a circle at the ceiling, "who is facing capital punishment, you have, in fact, killed."

L shook his head, soft locks falling in front of his eyes. "That's not the same, and you know it very well. Those who are sentenced to death are found guilty by a group of individuals, not one alone. Those who die, die as punishment for their actions and the protection of society. It is done in the pursuit of justice."

B smiled, the look in his eyes was almost pitying. "As were my kills." He tilted his head again, pity turning to a dreamy look. The chain at his throat swayed. "Justice… for the Wammy children."

The detective's fingers itched to seek out another sugar cube. 'Justice for the Wammy children' was it? In a way he wasn't surprised, shouldn't be surprised. This was going back to Any, to his suicide… Any had been pushed too far, and the Wammy House had been the ones to do the pushing. It was easy to blame the orphanage for his death, and more specifically, the one behind the Wammy House: L.

"If that were true," L said slowly, "then you would have killed _me_, not innocents. At least my 'kills' are confined to those I pursue, not bystanders."

B's lips twitched. "For now, L. For now."

It had been many years since B had run from the orphanage, since Any had committed suicide, and the longer L spoke with the man seated across from him, the clearer that became. B had changed in that time, in more ways than the burns covering his body could cloak. The shattered human being in front of him was not the same frightened boy they had found and brought into the institution nine years before. It was one of the arguments Quillish had used - one of many - to try and prevent the detective from coming. Like every other rationalization he'd presented, it had been argued against, circumvented and ignored.

L had changed in that time as well.

"You mean to suggest," the detective drawled out, "that not only have you become much like me, but that I have, or I _will_ become like you as well? That we will develop towards each other and become one another in thought and deed?" L's tone was flat, nearly without any inflection at all. It was as much to communicate how ridiculous he viewed the possibility as it was to keep him from communicating any other thoughts.

"More along the lines that we _are_ alike, L," he replied. "That we are, deep down and in our heart of hearts, brothers, and that the manifestations of the resemblance are slowly becoming more obvious, physically and otherwise. I modeled myself after you, it's true, in thought, manner and appearance, but you see," he shifted, leaned forward, his eyes filled with embers flaring to life, "_I needn't have bothered_. I've had a lot of time to think, and I believe you to be more like me, and _all_ the Wammy House children, than you would ever like to have known."

"You don't say."

"I _do _say," B insisted, leaning further forward over his own knees. "You're an orphan who's pulled yourself up to a position enviable by all. We were shown your achievements and told 'This could be yours.' That it was an attainable goal we should reach for. We held you in awe, saw you as a kind of hero or god. To think: an orphan, an orphan _like us_ could reach so high, and we possessed the potential to do the same."

The simmering flames in his pupils darkened. "It was good bait. But here's what we always seemed to overlook, and what makes _you_ like _us_: You're _still_ an orphan. You are as vulnerable to the same weaknesses as any of the rest of us. The loneliness, the grief, no sense of belonging, the need to prove yourself over and over, to stabilize everything around you, the fear of losing all that you have attained… You feed us the illusion of greatness, but you're just as frail as the rest of us."

L's head had slowly sunk during B's speech until his pointed chin rested on his breast, feathery locks hiding his face and any expression that might be painted there. The words B was wielding against him like weapons… some of them he was able to deflect, but others found their targets, stuck like barbs in his skin. Maybe coming _had_ been a bad idea.

Sensing the other man faltering, B pressed on. "And you still let us believe that we could become something better, didn't you? You _knew_ that there's no escaping the ghosts of the past, that our past lives would follow us into whatever future we might create, and _still_ you fed us the false hope of liberation, of happiness. All lies."

The detective took a deep breath, thought for a second he could taste the sharp, foul odor of burnt flesh. An illogical delusion brought by seeing B's scars so close. It was pure fantasy, a distraction, and not a worthy impression for a rational being to hold. He looked back up at B, who was watching him with an interested air, like a scientist observing a culture when a foreign agent is introduced. "Your reasoning is invalid," he said, voice still flat. "One may not be able to escape the memories of their past, but they can reach a place where they are no longer ruled by it."

Beyond laughed one of his practiced laughs, cutting off the real one that nearly escaped. "Heh, heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh heh. Do you think so? I think it's another lie you tell yourself to make living easier." He shook his head, grinning. "However you choose to live, L, the little proofs and signs will always be there for those of us who are willing to see the truth. Mark my words: you will die alone. Just like Any, just like every other Wammy kid will. Just like me."

"You are wrong," came the calm reply. "You are here because you put yourself here. Your decisions and actions led you to this conclusion, not some predestined fate based on your background, whether it was held in common with others or not." L lifted his chin ever so slightly, although his back remained bent. "I choose to live, and to act living. _I choose_ to make this world a better place, not a darker one."

"Tch. Lies, lies, lies, lies, _lies, __**lies!**_" The chain clattered against the chair as Beyond jerked his hands. "You live, breathe, dress, eat and shit lies, L! Everything you have ever done, said, everything you _are_ is a lie! Well, _look at me!_" He grabbed his own face. He pulled at his cheeks even though it hurt, even though it threatened to rip apart the delicate webs of healed flesh. "_This_ is what you really are! Take away all your pretty lies, the masks and deceptions, and _this_ is what would be left! You're just like me, L, you just fool everyone around you into thinking you are so righteous."

L stared for a moment as B lowered his hands and drew in long breaths. He sighed silently and hopped off of his chair, gathering up his jacket. "It's obvious you are incapable of communicating rationally, B. I had hoped otherwise, but if that is not the case, then I might as well leave now." He turned, took the three steps it took to travel from seat to door, and reached for the handle.

Beyond saw it as though it were happening in slow motion, saw L leaving, saw him walking away, and knew that he would never come back. This would be his one and only visit from the detective, and he had been lucky to get that much. There would be no second opportunity to speak with him… this would be the last time he ever saw L again.

L's fingers were curled around the cold metal of the doorknob when he was frozen in place by the call of a very broken voice.

"L…"

It was a lot different from the voice that had just been screaming at him. The detective hesitated - just a second - before he turned back around again.

He wished he hadn't.

The look in the half-deformed creature before him wasn't the look of a coldblooded killer. It was the look of the boy L had known years before. A frightened, friendless boy with red eyes, desperately hoping for someplace he could call home. The boy L had thought to give a chance - a real chance of something better. The voice that spoke to him now, uttering from cracked and twisted lips, came from that same boy, strained and on the verge of tears.

"I'm so tired, L…"

And then it was gone, the vision of the long-lost boy. The man shut his blood stained eyes and turned his face away, hiding the remnants of his momentary weakness. Suddenly aware of how thin the disguise being worn was, L realized that B was as much a prisoner in his own flesh as the chains at his wrists and throat.

L sat back down. What else could he do? Whatever he was, whatever B might accuse him of, he still felt some sort of personal responsibility. This heap of human wreckage that had once been his most promising ward… some might say that L was to blame for it.

_L_ might say that he was to blame for it.

Beyond took deep breaths, the cool air of the small room scorching him like the smoke laden apartment 1313. Flesh crawled, his heart felt like it was being crushed. He hadn't realized he still had one.

B was awake at last in his mind, he couldn't be shoved into a box and ignored. He was no longer pure hate, now there was as much conflict within himself as there was without. With all parts of his personality freed, he couldn't decide if he was still in the right or if he sympathized with the detective.

When he spoke again his voice wasn't as broken, as weak as before, but it was a good deal heavier. Weary, almost. "Why are you even here, L?" he asked, not bothering to look back at the man he was speaking to. "To ease your conscience? As though you've ever had one. To study your failed imitation, the interesting anomaly in your picture-perfect little dream? …To ask _why_?"

_Why am I here?_ L wondered again, chewing a nail to resist the sugar in his pocket. _This accomplishes nothing useful, gains us nothing of value. The case is done, skeletons are neatly in their closets, it's time to just leave be._

L shook his head, more to clear it than as a reply. "I won't ask you why you killed them, B. So much is obvious."

B looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, as though he were expecting more. When there was none he nodded, his fingers plucking at a link or two of his chains. "I hear you don't make as many appearances at the institution these days," he remarked offhandedly. "Why is that?"

L blinked. How exactly would B be aware of the goings on at the Wammy House? Did he have some kind of network still outside the prison, or had he been able to hack the systems from the outside? Was this real information B was presenting to him, or bait? How did he go about testing it?

_No_, he thought. _Stop_. That's not the kind of game he's playing now. This was on a more personal level, not an attempt to make him doubt the security at the orphanage. This was an attack against L the person, not L the detective, but an attack it certainly was, and L was never one to cringe from them.

"Would you believe… if I said that it was because I cared for you and Any, and that I didn't want to go through the pain of losing anyone, the way you were both lost, again?"

B's head came around, his chain swaying, and stared. He stared hard at the blank, pale face that had once been his, searching for any hint of the lie that had to be there. L _care_ for someone? And the moon might actually be made of cheese.

There was no sign of deception, but B hadn't expected to find any. Accomplished liars knew how to hide them. "…No"

L's expression didn't change. "Then: I felt, after you and your little incident, that I would be best advised if I concealed my appearance as well as my name from everyone. Even those on my own side."

The scarred man snorted, flipped limp strands of hair out of his face. "'Your side'? Is anyone on 'your side', L?" His lips curved in a mockery of a grin. "From what I understand, 'your side' has a grand total of one. Oh, there's the side of 'good', whatever that happens to be, but that's not the same thing. The side of L is the side that works cases for L's amusement. Cases are decided on their merits as a challenge, not on their deserving. We were never on 'your side', L. We were just replacements. Spare parts."

Was this the way Beyond truly saw the world around him, L wondered? This bleak outlook in which there was no higher purpose? L bit his thumb almost hard enough to draw blood. How much might they have prevented that? "You were not spare parts, B."

"To you we were," Beyond snapped back. The skin around the elder man's eyes tightened, one of the only outward signs of his annoyance. Beyond felt a small, suppressed glee at the knowledge he was the cause of it. "The replacements surpass the original. We are not just pieces to your master plan. We can function independently, while without us, you would flounder." He paused, felt the little fire in him ebb away again, the weariness moving to take its place. "But I forget," he said, letting his head droop, "there are always places to find more spare parts. I'm sure that as soon as I left, a brand new cog was found to take my place."

L hesitated, wondering at the wisdom of sharing the next piece of information with the unstable man. His energy and moods were fluctuating severely, but with that in mind, it might not matter what he said. "Actually, the current top-ranked was already a student by the time you left. Had just arrived, as a matter of fact."

Beyond cast his mind back, searching his memory of the days just before he had left. It wasn't pleasant. "…The little albino?"

L nodded.

"So he's the new 'A', is he?"

"No, we gave up on the redistribution of letters to match rank. Now the letters that they come in with they keep, and their ranks are kept separate from their names." It was something L had insisted on, soon after B had run. It was a small measure to separate a student's perception of self-worth from the Wammy House ranking. So that every time someone said their name, they weren't reminded of exactly where they stood in relation to their peers.

It had been somewhat humiliating that none of them - Roger, Quillish, or L - had seen that as a possible issue.

B considered this, and nodded. "Good. I never really understood the logic to the first system, always changing names. And the thought of anyone else becoming 'A'…" He looked up, his lips pulled back. "It could set a man mad, you know?"

L suppressed a shudder, trying to reconcile the boy of Wammy's House with the chained, over-bright eyed killer before him. He'd dedicated his life and his talents to finding and bringing the worst of the worst to justice, and in the course of that, he'd sometimes wondered how a person could become what they were. After catching so many, and seeing the worst of the human race had to offer, he'd ceased to wonder so much.

B made him wonder anew.

What had he been before coming to Wammy's? A little lost soul, bereft not only of his parents, but any companionship as he was systematically rejected by everyone around him. Peers, orphanages, foster homes, no one would have anything to do with a boy whose eyes stared into your soul. Had there been something, even then, that had him fated to become a killer?

Then, of course, the Wammy House had found him. They found him because of his intelligence, with the intention of molding him into a perfect heir for L. When they'd learned his history… it just strengthened their resolve to give the boy something better.

L's mouth twisted in distaste. '_Give him something better_'? Oh yes, they'd managed that, alright. Their rescue of a lost soul was a complete success. Now he wasn't lost; he was condemned.

"Do you ever lie awake at night, L," B said dreamily, staring at the ceiling, "feeling sure that somewhere there existed another being that wanted your death so fiercely that they would cheerfully waltz into hell to see it happen? If they weren't already destined for hell, that is."

L sighed, frustrated, and pinched the bridge of his nose. B was simply _trying_ to get a reaction out of him now, he was sure. It was a childish behavior, but he might have expected that. The way he had been raised hadn't exactly done its best to create a mature individual. But coming up against it was somewhat irksome. L succumbed to the craving, and popped another sugar cube.

B wasn't the only one who was tired.

"Why don't you try it, then?"

The dreaminess sapped out of B immediately. He stared openly at L, who looked back at him through half-lidded eyes. "What?"

"If you want my death so badly, why don't you attempt it? This may be your last chance to do so, and I won't necessarily stop you." He looked at the cuffs and chains. "You're bound, but I'm sure you could devise a way to use those chains to your advantage. You're not confined to your chair, the chains could easily be used to beat or choke me to death, or any number of other methods I'm sure you could think up. We are alone and unobserved, past actions have proven you capable of murder. Why not try and kill me?"

Beyond Birthday glared, hate writhing in his gut. Damn him… Damn L for throwing his weakness up in his face. Kill L… as if he could… Red eyes flicked to the numbers that waited, hovering just above the nest of black, unruly hair. Those numbers protected the detective from him, he couldn't break them. He couldn't kill L, and he _knew_ he couldn't.

"I can't kill you." He bit the words out.

"A noble sentiment for a killer," L replied sarcastically. "You'll pardon me if I find it a little difficult to believe, B. You have just finished a speech proclaiming a fierce desire for it, and have killed three - at _least_ three - other people merely for the sake of ruining my reputation. Surely you would leap at a chance to kill me yourself."

"Oh, I would," the words grated out, and L believed them. "I would revel in your demise. But I can't kill you. Or to be more specific, you can't be killed."

"I assure you that I am as human as you are, B."

Again, Beyond barked his laugh, his rehearsed string of harsh syllables, while the real laughter rattled in his chest like insects in a cardboard box, thumping and scratching along his ribs. "Oh, I know that better than you do, L," he said, swallowing the true sniggers. "Believe you me, I know that."

Beyond leaned back in his chair until the back of his head touched the cool bricks just behind him. The chain dragged and clattered obscenely against the metal chair, and his feet threatened to slip out from beneath him, but he kept his perch. Staring at the detective who still looked so much like him in the way he sat, the way his shoulders stooped, the way he _looked_ at things, he tried to imagine killing him. Choking him, crushing the cartilage of his trachea with his thumbs and listening to his last wheezing, struggling breaths… Stabbing him, slipping a blade between his ribs and into his heart, feeling the handle shiver with the last few beats as his hands were washed in his blood…

He tried to imagine what it would be like, to be alive and know that L was gone forever.

He wondered if _he_ could be considered alive if L were dead.

Allowing his mind to wander, he spoke the words without meaning to. "L is for liar."

L reacted no more than he had to anything else B had said, and when he replied his voice was neutral. "B is for betrayal."

A memory whispered through Beyond's mind, made his lips twitch. _Word game_.

"Limited."

"Barbaric."

"Lacking."

"Butcher."

"Loser."

"Backhanded."

It wasn't quite the same as their old games had been, back when B had been a child in the Wammy House. They were using each others' letters, and there was no pattern to the words they threw at each other, save they were meant to sting, to put some dent in the other's armor.

"Backward."

"Left."

"Backfire."

Back and forth the two men fired off their words, flinging them out like arrows to wound the other. At first there was no notable reaction, and had anyone been observing the exchange it would have seemed to be a useless exercise, a mere game to see who could come up with the most descriptive words for the other. As it continued, however, as the words sped quicker and quicker over their teeth and the syllables became clipped, the posture of both men became tense. Not changed in shape, but more rigid, as though neither one were willing to give an inch physically as well as psychologically.

Finally, leaning so far forward in his seat he threatened to tumble it and himself over to the concrete floor, Beyond shouted out his last word. A word he felt epitomized the respect he had once held for L, the reason why and how that had twisted into loathing, why they were where they were now.

"_Loved!_"

L stopped, frozen by the single shouted word. B's crimson, half-demonic, half-human stare bored into him, waiting for his reply, and he could see the final line the man was preparing to cross.

Beyond waited, feeling suspended in time as L rolled the word in his mind. Beyond could wait, would wait until he had crumbled to dust to hear the last word, the one word he wanted to hear. It was his final humiliation, one he knew fully, though he tried to hide it.

However much he hated L, how much he loathed him and his methods, or how much the hypocrisy and false nobility disgusted him, there was still something that he couldn't let go. A remnant of his days as a simple student vying for a position in Wammy's higher ranks:

Acknowledgement.

He craved it, he needed it. It was a kind of deep down in his bones ache that would not ease. He needed the acknowledgement that he was worthwhile, as more than just a copy of the original. He was worth notice just in and of himself, not for who he was meant to be.

He was, and _L_ needed to see that.

All it would take is just two more letters. _Just two more_, he thought, forcing his thoughts across the space and to L. _Just two more, added to the word I just gave you. Tell me I'm not just a copy, I'm more than a failed experiment. Tell me…_

…_Beloved…_

L stared at the monster before him that had once been his heir, his hope, whose bloody red eyes pinned him with their intensity and need. He understood, at least vaguely, what it was B wanted, what his every fiber seemed to be straining for. It came to him, in that moment, what it had all been for, the killing, the puzzles, the twisted game of cat and mouse played across LA and several lives.

L understood, and found himself unable to give that simple gift.

Black oblivion locked with crimson mortality.

"Broken."

The word was whispered, but it could not have been louder if it had been shouted. It seemed to echo and re-echo around the room.

Beyond felt his heart stop, the single word ringing in his ears, tolling like the bell he could never forget. He stared, numbness creeping into his tattered limbs as the word sunk in.

_Broken._

Broken, defiled, useless and cast aside, not worth the effort of salvaging, or too far gone to try. Broken, like a toy.

The last few shards of his mirror began to tumble away…

_Broken broken broken broken broken broken broken…!_

L heard the difference immediately between B's past laughter and the low chuckles that escaped him now. The others had been awkward, stumbling and self-aware. This, these laughs were raw and rolling, the kind of unmeasured staccato of real laughter. Only he didn't think B was enjoying his loss of control.

The chuckles became laughs, the laughs became guffaws, growing and building until he was shrieking with laughter. It was high pitched, hysterical, an awful sound. It was the sound of shattering glass and crashing logic, bouncing and reverberating around the room until one's teeth fairly rattled with it. It was the sound of madness finally finding an escape.

Beyond gasped, choked, sputtered, his eyes wide and a tinge of fear lurking in their corners. Then he smashed his head against the wall behind him so hard L could almost feel the vibration. The horrible giggling faltered but did not stop. The scarred man bludgeoned himself against the unrelenting brick again. And again.

And again.

Still perched in his chair, alarm mounting by the second, L nearly pressed the panic button in his jeans pocket. It was meant as a safety feature for himself, but it would work equally well for B. Just to get someone in the room and help him stop B from breaking his head and splattering his brains against the wall… but the fourth hit was the last. B's laughs died away with a gurgling cough. L sat back again, removing his hand from the hidden button, but ready to go for it again in an instant.

B's head was bowed, gasping for breath in great sobs. As he slowly calmed, his hands turned over, and he studied his palms. He spoke lowly, apparently to himself but uncaring if L heard him.

"All shattered… crystalline parasites… digging deep to feast on the marrow…" His entire body shuddered, it looked as though he might vomit. The spasm passed though, and he looked up, his torn face stained with the tears of mirth and misery.

"Ask your questions, L," he said, his voice hoarse. "Whatever you have come to say or do, do it now, while there's still someone here to hear it."

Again they arrived at the 'why' of his visit, why L had felt so driven to see his failed heir. Now he had a better understanding than at the beginning of their interview, and only hesitated a moment. "How… could you find it _justifiable_ to kill innocents in order to hurt me?"

"I've already said: you've killed, too."

"I have never killed innocent people, B."

"No," he agreed quietly, staring at his scarred and mangled feet. "What you do to the innocents is far worse than that…"

L inhaled deeply, settling himself. The discussion was slowly rattling his sense of values. If it continued much longer… "That's beside the point. What I asked was how you are able to _justify_ your killings of people totally unconnected with our quarrel. Wouldn't doing so only make yourself the same breed of monster that you consider me to be, and thereby lessen the value of your venture?"

"Aah… I see. It's not as difficult as you might suppose. It's actually quite easy… almost as easy as the killing itself." Beyond's fingers curled into a tight fists, the knuckles cracked. "You think that it would come down to a battle of worth, 'Is my life worth more or less than this person's life?' But that's not it at all. Really in the end, it all comes down to the simple fact that they were going to die anyway, with or without me."

L cocked his head, squinting at the hunched, huddled figure in the opposite chair. Something in his tone suggested that B was edging along some piece of information normally kept closely guarded, closer to the surface now in his present state. What it might be, L could only guess. And dig.

"I find it interesting," he said slowly, feeling his way, "that you have no trouble rationalizing their deaths, but when it comes to mine, you are unable to go so far."

"Heh, it's not that. Your death I don't even need to rationalize, it would be a pleasure, pure and simple. But the fact remains that it's not your time, you can't _be_ killed." He looked up, a soft curving of his lips, the first real smile he'd worn since L had come in softening his tortured features. "You still have many years of happy sleuthing and child brainwashing ahead of you, you bastard."

L rolled a sugar cube between his fingers. He didn't remember digging into his pocket for one. "You saw it in the tea leaves?"

B rolled his eyes. It was such a normal gesture it was almost rendered surreal by its setting. "Would that I rated highly enough for tea leaves. No."

"Then how?"

Thin shoulders rose and fell, clattering the chains. "It may not be tea leaves, but I can see some things that others cannot."

"And I presume you 'saw' that it was these others' times to die, while my time remained distant?"

Again, the ghost of a smile. "Strange to relate, yes."

The corners of the cube between his fingers had softened and worn away, there was a sand-like grittiness as he toyed with the developing sphere. "Forgive me, B, if I find that hard to swallow. If you were, as you say, able to see more than an average person, and were somehow able to predict someone's time to die, it would mean that you possess some sort of supernatural ability only seen in fiction. Not to mention the slew of moral, ethical and spiritual issues it would generate, not the least of which being predestination and free will."

L tried to imagine if it were true, and to put it into the context B had given him. He said he could see when someone was meant to die, and that that knowledge either made killing easy or impossible. Meaning that depending on when a person's time was, it was either impossible to escape or it guaranteed life? Did he mean that times of death were set in stone, then, and escape a futile dream? What did that mean for his killings, then? Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen, and Backyard Bottomslash; did B really mean to suggest that they would have died at that time if he hadn't killed them anyway? What did that say about his murders?

What did that say about _any_ murders, if the victim's life was set to end at a predestined time?

Beyond was watching him, his stained eyes observing as L's expression subtly changed with his thoughts. His own expression was almost sad. He nodded, as though aware of exactly where L's reasoning had led him. "I know. I've lived my whole life knowing… and maybe you're right. Maybe it's not real, maybe it's all a giant hallucination. Maybe I've been mad my entire life. But then, the best any of us can do is believe our personal realities, even if they might only be shadows."

Staring into the crimson pools of B's eyes, L's mind was cast back years, to when he had first arrived at the institution. When reporting on the boy, someone, Roger or Quillish or an instructor, had commented on how eerie those eyes were when locked on you. As though they were staring straight down into your soul. L had understood the sentiment, but had never felt it himself. Now, with this strange conversation, and B's wild claims, now he felt it.

"Do you truly believe it, B, or are you whistling in the wind?"

Shrug. "Whether I believe or not is immaterial at this point. But there's a good way to find out if it's true." He leaned forward, the chain swung into space, light reflected and dancing off its links.

"What's my name?"

L's smooth brow creased. "What has that got to do with anything?"

B did not blink, did not waver. "Answer the question, L."

The rounded cube of sugar, more a ball than a cube any more, found its way to L's mouth, joining its predecessors as the detective considered. It may have been a way to buy time, or it may have been a force of habit. Finally:

"I don't know, B. I have dug as deeply as I ever have into your records, the records of your family, your schools, doctors, neighbors, your entire life before you became an orphan. All I was able to find was the name 'Bartram', which you claim to be false."

"It is false." L wondered if B had blinked in the last three minutes.

"Then I was unable to discover your true name."

The stretch of skin, the humorless baring of teeth. "Then at least I have that, eh? I may have lost the war, but that is one small battle I can claim."

"A hollow victory when it's incomplete," L commented around the sugar. "The challenge was for both of us to attempt to locate each others' names. You have not found mine, either, so at best this particular battle would have to be considered a draw."

A gaze of flame stared from behind a wispy curtain of blackest ash.

"That so, Lawliet?"

…

Forever afterward, whenever L tried to recall that moment, he could never remember what was going through his mind. However hard he tried, there were no memories, no thoughts to accompany those few seconds, stretching into minutes. Perhaps there were none. Perhaps his mind had completely frozen.

Whenever B recalled the moment, the first time he spoke L's secret name aloud and to his face, he remembered it as one of the sweetest in his life. How L's every muscle seemed to slacken, his face drained of color and expression, and his eyes went all out of focus. It was a wonderful sight, and B reveled in it.

"Lawliet…" B said, drawing the name out slowly, rolling it across his tongue, tasting its shape. "Law-LIET, LAW-liet, Law-li-ET… is it two syllables or three?"

"Three," he answered, his voice distant and faint. "Emphasis on the second."

B tried it. "Law-LEE-et. Lawliet. It has quiet a nice sound, doesn't it?" he taunted the dazed detective, enjoying the feeling of having bested him at last. He knew it wouldn't last long. "It rolls, has a nice Old English sound to it, right at the end. It's better than mine, anyway. But you wouldn't know, would you?" The scarred man smirked.

L forced himself to focus, to regain control. B knew his name. Somehow, impossibly, it had been found out. "How long have you known?" He was relieved his voice sounded almost his own again. "Where did you find that information?"

"I told you, I know things that others don't. I doubt you would believe me if I told you how. As for how long, I've known since I met you that your real name is 'L Lawliet'. Tricky, that, using your real name and telling everyone it's fake."

"So you've known the entire time."

A leering, triumphant grin. "Of course. In true tradition of the Wammy House, I knew the answer before issuing the challenge. Don't worry, though. The whole world knows your name, but only I know it's real."

L tried to stir his mind, to jumpstart it and think clearly. B knew his name, and had known it for years. That meant he had figured it out - the best kept secret of the Greatest Detective and the Wammy House - when he had been a mere child of ten. How many others could have found out his identity? B was incredibly intelligent and always had been, but he had still been only a child. If he could have figured it out, so could have many others. Even not taking that into account, if B had known it so long, there was a distinct possibility that he had let it slip to someone else. Should he question every child, every instructor that _may_ have had contact with the red-eyed orphan if he'd let the sensitive information slip?

He should be concerned. L's identity was a carefully guarded secret for a good reason, and anyone possessing that knowledge was a serious breach, a threat to his own safety and the legacy he would one day leave behind.

But he couldn't find it in himself to worry. He couldn't muster the concern, the belief that B would wantonly spread the knowledge. It wasn't because he was in prison, regarded at best as barely sane, and wasn't likely to be believed even if he shrieked it from the rooftops. It was because he truly believed B _wouldn't_ share his mysteriously gained information. It didn't fit with his personality. If anything, L thought it more likely that B would guard L's name as or more closely than L did.

He believed it, the same way he could almost believe B somehow knew when it was someone's time to die, as he claimed he could.

"I may not have many pleasures left to me," B was saying, recalling L back to himself. "I may not get the pleasure of killing you myself, but there is one I still have. The knowledge that you will die alone."

Beyond raised a hand to his face, felt the scarred and torn features, his stomach turning at the feel of his own tortured flesh. It was his internal nature showing through, but it still made him sick.

"Who is there," he murmured, not particularly caring if L heard, "who will ever know L as well as B did? Who will be there, by your side, who can honestly say they understand you, and stand on equal footing with you? No one. I will be the only one to get so close, and you have condemned me to oblivion." He refocused on L, who was watching him as intently, his thumb still and unmoving against his mouth. "I will die alone, but so will you. You'll die alone, L, and there will be no one there who will have cared as much as I did."

He shook his head, chuckling. "I forget, though. Now is your time to get what you came for. What else did you want, L? Now is the time, now or never."

The elder man, instead of replying, shifted, looking away and biting down on a nail with an audible _click_.

Beyond's eyes widened, he felt the laughter rise up dangerously as realization dawned. "You don't even know why you came, do you?" Still, L did not reply.

"You came here to reassure yourself that it wasn't your fault," Beyond said, sure his words were reaching L, even if he refused to react. "That what I did was because of some sort of intrinsic flaw in _me_, and so by wash yourself of any responsibility. Returning to your pristine conscience without a worry…" He tilted his head, once a perfect imitation of L's gesture, now a parody. "But you're also trying to understand. You give yourself opposing goals. You're trying to distance yourself, but then trying to understand me?"

Beyond Birthday clenched his jaw, felt his teeth groan in protest. His head was pounding, throbbing painfully with every one of his heartbeats, his ears felt stuffed with cotton. He wanted to close his eyes, block out the garish light and the sight of L, whole and comfortable, sitting so close to him, but every time he did, phantoms rose from the graveyard of memory. Blood and flame, knives and needles, bone crunching and the terror of a child…

L was staring at him again, silent. Beyond wanted to break his face, erase the taunting visage, but it wouldn't change anything. Not now.

"Don't try to understand what I am," he shouted suddenly, feeling liquid hate coursing through him. "You understanding will only make me human. No one wants me human! Better to call me a freak, insane, sociopathic, a monster, because that's easier than admitting I'm one of _them_, that _they_ could be _me_. Better to kill me in name…" A treacherous sting in the corners of his eyes, it stoked the heat of his fire. "Make me a monster, L!" he screamed in the detective's face. "Think of me as nothing but a monster!"

"…And forget."

There was silence in the room for several minutes, nearly complete save for the sound of breathing from the two men. L's steady, quiet in and out and Beyond's ragged half-gasps.

"I do not think of you as a monster, B," L said quietly. "I never have. 'Beyond Birthday' is the mask of a heartless murderer, and to me you have always remained 'B'."

"And even that name is a mask…" Chain links pressed into his palms painfully as he gripped them as tightly as he could.

"Then why not remove them?"

"…What?"

"'Bartram', 'B', 'Beyond Birthday', 'Rue Ryuzaki'… all of them masks. All of them roles, parts that you've made yourself play. Beneath them all must be who you really are. Why not cast off the false personalities and be who you really are?"

_Had there ever been a time when that had even been possible?_ he wondered. At the Wammy House he had always been B, or Beyond to Any. In foster homes and orphanages before that he'd been Bartram… even before his parents died, he had been Bartram. Only in the most private of moments had he ever been called by his real name, the name that hovered silently over his head. Always pretending, as L said, but if the layers of deception were removed, would there be anything underneath it all?

"Who I really am…" he repeated. "Meaning to strip away the falsehoods, the aliases gathered over the years?" Eyes locked one last time. "You want to know my name, L?"

The detective didn't respond, but he didn't need to. Beyond could see the man wanted to know in the way his ink-black eyes boiled.

"…No," he said, watching L closely. "Let's let that be the final thing you've never known about me, eh? I may have lost the war, but I claim this battle as mine."

L tried not to show his frustration. Tried not to growl, to bite his lip, or to shout when he said, "So you cling to the names that take you further from humanity, rather than reclaim what you can? Why?"

Benoni smiled, and it did not twist his features. His eyes did not flash or harden, there was no lurking malevolence in their corners. "Because," he said gently, as though explaining to a child, "sometimes… you're only as human as you're allowed to be."

…

_**A/N:**__ And there we are, folks. (phew)_

_So, we finally get to see what Beyond's real name (or at least the 'real name' I gave him) was. And my guess is that it's probably a bit of a surprise / let down to those who were expecting something epic for a true name. First let me say that I didn't originally intend to reveal B's true name. At all. Not to L and not to the readers. (I know, I'm evil.) When did I change my mind? As I was writing it, actually. Did I have his name in mind the whole time? Yes. From chapter one, I knew B's true name was 'Benoni'. Why did I choose 'Benoni'? Well… I pick names a little strangely. For side characters I'll pull them from favorite and obscure characters or authors, for main characters I pick them based on their meanings. This is true for both of B's names and for Any's as well. 'Bartram' means 'glorious raven' (__**Ding:**__ this was the author self-insertion I put in as a game waaaaaaaay back) and 'Benoni' means 'son of my sorrow'. This will be used again later in a pre-prequel to this I'm planning to write. As for 'Anwyl'… wait for the next chapter to see why I picked that name. ;3 To anyone who might think that the name Benoni doesn't fit with the character of Beyond Birthday… Yeah, that was the point. O.o_

_The information on the California State Penitentiary is about as accurate as I could make it. Specific numbers on population I was unable to find, especially for the year when this takes place, so I used average numbers for recent years and scaled it back slightly. Hopefully I'm in the ballpark. It is the largest facility in the US, however, and overpopulation a serious issue._

_The pronouncing of L's name… I know there are a lot of different ways of pronouncing his name, and that in some places on the internet it's a hotly debated topic. I'm not trying to put in my two cents and say that this __**is**__ the way it is pronounced, just that this is the way I think it is and what I always think when thinking 'Lawliet'. If you have a different way of pronouncing it that you like better, then feel free to mentally edit and insert your preferred way. I don't really care either way, just don't bombard me with 'That's wrong!' comments. :P_

_And on that note: L never learning the truth of B's eyes. Throughout this story I have tried to stay within reasonable limits of what has gone before and what's to come in __Death Note__. I've bent a few rules and taken a few loopholes (and only once that I know of blatantly ignored a rule - but it was truly minor) but I've tried very hard to at least stay plausibly within the main story so this could be inserted believably. Here's my reasoning, in a nutshell: L couldn't really believe B's ability to know a person's time to die, or know that these abilities were tied to his eyes. The reason being that if he did, later in __Death Note__ (spoilers) when Misa as the second Kira mentions having 'the eyes', L would eventually - probably very quickly - remember B and what he had been able to do. This would seriously change what happens in the main plot, and I don't see L simply forgetting it or overlooking it if he had known. So, he's kept in the dark about B's shinigami eyes, and it isn't even fully explained to him what it is B is capable of 'seeing'. As it is, I think I toed the line pretty damned close, and am already pushing the limit on how believable it would be for L __**not**__ to make this connection. I claim poetic license. _

_Also, it was pointed out to me in a review that the shinigami eyes should not be visible to anyone who happens to look at them. That the red flashes we see in __Death Note__ (Misa, Mikami) are there for dramatic emphasis. I'm pretty sure I touched on this in an earlier Author's Note, but I'll say it again and possibly clarify: I know. I changed this rule slightly for plot purposes, and in fact, there is a loophole that would allow me to do this without breaking any rules outright. I did in fact put some thought into making B's eyes visibly red, it wasn't just an aesthetic choice. Unfortunately there was nowhere here for me to lay out that logic in a narrative way. If you want to know, you'll have to wait for that pre-prequel I'm planning where we see B - briefly - even younger, and the family he came from. (__**Shameless plug.**__)_

_And just as a slight warning for the next chapter: It will be short. Not super short, I think, but much shorter than this chapter. However, the second Author's Note… will probably be huge. There haven't been any trivia questions for me to answer asked thus far, so I'll probably just be putting up a few tidbits about the 'behind the scenes' of writing this. A LOT of time and effort went into this, and I think it would be fun to show some of the ways it could have gone and the logics that went into what you see here. Also, there will be a fuller - if tentative - plan for upcoming Beyond Birthday fics. I'm not done with him yet. ;D_

_**Thank you, everybody! One more to go!**_


	13. Farewell

_**A/N:**__ I have nothing interesting to say before the chapter. Happy Halloween and enjoy, everyone!_

_**Betas:**__ Voice of the Shadow Realm & SkyTurtle3. _

_**Music:**_ Aqua Harp _by Animusic__._

_**Warning:**__ Rated 'M' for very graphic and disturbing imagery, language, psychological trauma and gore, read with caution. Spoilers for both __Death Note__ and __Death Note: Another Note__._

_**Disclaimer:**__ Death Note__ and related characters © Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. __Death Note: Another Note__ and related characters © NISIOISIN._

_...  
_

What's My Name?

Part Thirteen, "Farewell"

Raven Ehtar

...

"_Now is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning."  
~ Winston Churchill ~_

_...  
_

By the end of the first month in 2004 it was almost becoming common for prisoners in jail and criminals on the street to die of heart attacks when they had shown no previous signs of poor heart health. This wasn't due to an oversight in medications or poor treatment on the part of the prisons. That would suggest that the trend was an isolated event, when in reality the sharp incline in the mortality rate was a worldwide phenomenon. A pandemic of cardiac arrests, very specifically affecting only those who broke the law.

Considering the size and scope of it, it didn't take long for the world at large to realize that something extraordinary was behind the deaths of the guilty; and even more extraordinary, some_one_. Someone with consciousness and intent was systematically targeting and eliminating the less desirable elements of society.

Once the initial shock and disbelief that such a thing could be real and not some huge, elaborate hoax, people did what they always do when faced with a new situation that impacted their lives. They adapted.

There was, of course, a lot of agitation around the subject, especially at first. There were hot debates on the plausibility, ability, identity, and above all morality of the person who came to be known as 'Kira'. Theories on who he was, what his overall intentions were, and whether he should be worshipped or vilified were as wide ranging as the people who developed them. But for the day to day, everyday routines that were the norm of existence, life continued more or less as it always had. Those not directly involved went about their lives without much change, and those on the front lines who got to see the grisly results of 'Kira's' work quickly got used to it. If they never became comfortable with it was another matter, but it at least lost the power to horrify. It became the new routine, to clear away the bodies of inmates, to notify the families and file the final paperwork.

So when it transpired that an inmate by the name Beyond Birthday, held at the Los Angeles County Penitentiary died of a heart attack on January 21, 2004, there was no alarm, no confusion, not even that much surprise. When the time came to notify his next of kin of his passing and it was discovered there were none, that caused no surprise, either. Many died without either friend or family, leaving no one to mourn them. On Beyond Birthday's file, instead of family listed as his notifying party, was an institution in England. It was unusual, but procedure was followed through.

The following morning a pair of men, both middle-aged and friendly, arrived to collect the body and take it back with them. Both were fully prepared to go through the complicated process of shipping a cadaver overseas.

Within three days of his passing, Beyond Birthday was back in Winchester, perhaps the only place he would have called home in life. Omitting his earliest years, it had been his home for the longest amount of time, and was certainly one of the places to leave the greatest impressions on him. By the next day he had taken his appointed place in the small cemetery a couple of kilometers from the orphanage where he had lived to rest between Any and Cecilia.

By the time Beyond returned for his burial, anyone who might have attended the ceremony had 'graduated' from Wammy's House and moved along to pursue their own careers. None were able - or willing - to make the journey back for a funeral of a boy they had barely known as children. So Beyond's only witnesses as his pine box was lowered into the ground were Roger, a few staff who remembered the red-eyed boy, and one or two curious children who knew of Beyond by word of mouth and were too stubborn to be kept away. Not very many, but more than Beyond would have expected himself if asked.

Noon the next day found a single visitor at Beyond's grave.

The figure was bundled heavily against the January chill, a thick coat falling all to way to his knees and the collar coming so high it hid his face up to his nose from view. A knitted cap was pulled low over his ears, a few stray black wisps of hair managing to peek out from under the edge. In his hand he held a small, plain brown paper bag. He had been standing in place, watching the newly erected stone over Beyond Birthday's grave long enough for the flesh of his cheeks to have gone frozen and red. His feet, even wrapped in unfamiliar and irritating socks within his shoes, were beginning to go numb where he stood, even without being buried in snow. He shifted uncomfortably, wriggling his frozen toes and shrugging so his collar covered a place where icy breezes were sneaking in to chill the nape of his neck. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay much longer. He had already been there for almost an hour without moving more than a few inches. He would need to finish up soon and retreat to warmer surroundings.

The problem was that, once again, he wasn't positive why he was there, what it was he wanted to accomplish.

L stared at the gravestone, already frosted over with its first layer of snow, as though it could give him an answer, some clue as to what to do next. The stone was silent, offering nothing more than a name and set of numbers, and a four word epitaph. It was so little, a very little to sum up a life: four words, a name, and a record of how long you'd managed to last, like some macabre scoreboard.

He looked out over the little hills yet to be filled, but still marked out and waiting for their residents to come to them. The sight felt unreal, yet he had been one of the ones to implement the idea, to have one's final resting place picked out and waiting for you… His own little plot waited for L as well, just atop a slight rise to his left. If he wanted to, he could visit his own grave.

Shaking off the feeling that thought brought with it, L returned his shadowed gaze to B's stone. Staring at the etched granite, he felt as though he had been here before. Of course he had, but the sense of déjà vu washing over him went deeper than that. Here he was again, facing yet another dead child he had though to give something better. Here he was again, visiting his most promising replacement as he sank to new lows. Here he was again, and wasn't even sure why.

Except that that wasn't quite true, L supposed. He knew why he was here in general, why he had taken such precious time from the Kira case to travel all the way back to Winchester for this errand. He was here to say goodbye.

The problem was he wasn't sure how to go about it. How do you say goodbye to someone already dead and buried? He knew the procedure, most of which had already been done. The coffin, the burial, the words spoken - however briefly - over the grave and occupant, and the stone put in place. All of these were the ritualized motions meant to symbolize the final farewell between the living and the dead. There was also the leaving of flowers at the grave, but that had seemed unbearably silly and effeminate, so L had brought something a little more in keeping with B's personality. Now he was here with it in his hand, though, it still felt silly to leave it when he knew the custodian would only clear it away later. Really, what was the point when the one you left the gift for was _dead_?

The issue may not have been with the practices themselves, L realized, but because he had never participated in any of them. The last rites were not there for the benefit of the departed, but to comfort the living left behind, and none of those who had died around L had required his mourning. He remembered very little of his parents, little more than two vaguely protective presences, and so had been too young to understand what it had meant when they died. Cecilia's funeral had been the first he had attended that he could remember, and then his first priority had been calming and comforting the children left behind. His own grief, such as it was, had been buried in work. With Any's death… again, he had concentrated on the living. He had spent some time at Any's grave later, but that had been more to give himself time to think than to pay last respects.

Now he was here, his attention all on the unprepossessing stone before him, he wanted to give the final farewell, to have it done so he could move on… He just didn't know how to do it.

L sighed, shifted the little bag with its grave offering from one hand to the other.

He wasn't a man given to fanciful notions. Fantasies had no place in his line of work. If you let your imagination run wild with you, you never knew where you would end up. More often than not it wasn't anywhere useful.

Despite that, L could easily imagine B perched atop his own tombstone, one knee drawn close, the other foot left to dangle. He was an adult, as fully grown as the last time L had ever seen him, but his face and body were free of the scars that had clothed him then. L could see him clearly, could see the way the vermillion eyes sparkled, how the lips quirked into a crooked smirk.

"_Returning to the scene of the crime?"_ L could almost hear him lightly jibe, his mischievous smile widening.

"_What's the matter, L?"_ his imaginary prodigy mocked. _"Still don't know what you want, why it is you keep coming back?"_ B chuckled, the sound as natural and unstrained as when he'd been a child.

"_Some detective."_

L shook his head, clearing away the unlooked for vision. Taunts from the real thing were bad enough. Coming from subconscious constructs of his own mind were worse. He knew why he was here, it was just a matter of getting it done.

Catching sight of the stone next to B's, L read it.

A  
Any  
Beloved Friend and Brother

L smiled at the epitaph engraved into the stone. It had been one of the last things B had left behind before he'd disappeared for three years. He was the one who had chosen the words to be set over Any's grave. L had known even then how fond of word games B had been, but hadn't given the epitaph a second thought. Since going through the debacle in LA and witnessing the sheer depth of B's word play, he'd looked it over more closely. And he'd found two hidden messages in the stone.

One was fairly obvious, at least after the LA incident, as it followed the same pattern of 90% of his puzzles. With the words 'beloved' and 'brother' as he first and last words, the 'initials' of the phrase were "BB". Simple, especially once the pattern had been established.

The other message had been much tougher to spot, and L had almost given up on it entirely, deciding there was no more to be had in the way of hidden messages before practically tripping over it. It was the word 'beloved' again that held the key. 'Beloved one' was the meaning of an old Welsh name, and L believed it was the name that B was trying to communicate.

Anwyl, Any's real name. Somehow B had discovered Any's true name as well, just as he had said he could, and had put it, in a roundabout manner, on his gravestone.

Sneaky kid.

Abruptly the air was filled with the tolls and echoes of a bell, sounding twelve o'clock. It wasn't the Wammy House tower bell, that was far too far away to be heard in the cemetery, but it still made L flinch. He'd never be able to hear the sound of a bell again without thinking of Any, or B, or the Wammy House and all it contained.

When the last of the echoes died away, L opened his eyes and read what had been etched into B's stone:

BB  
Beyond Birthday  
The One Who Knew

There hadn't been anyone left at the orphanage who had known B well enough to provide a meaningful epitaph for him, so L had taken the task himself. It really was a tiny thing to leave behind, just four words. There was no complex message woven into it was there was on Any's, only the meaning of the words themselves. Beyond had known L's name, known Any's name, and L suspected he'd known the names of nearly every other child at the orphanage as well.

But more than just the names, B had had a level of insight into L that had bordered on disturbing. He'd seen past the masks L had put in place and done his best to smash them to bits, to become the physical reflection of what he'd seen beneath it all. L would have been lying if he said he didn't think certain aspects were at least near the mark. And B's prediction that L would die as B did, that had a certain feel of truth about it as well. Especially now, with Kira on the scene.

_Kira_…

There was no doubt that the Kira case was the strangest and the most dangerous that L had ever taken on. Someone who was able to kill anyone in the world, regardless of distance or protections, so long as their face and name were both known to the killer. Many would say - and many did - that such a thing was impossible, and even if it were possible, then tracking down the perpetrator really would be impossible. How did you find a killer who left no trace, who killed his victims, so far as anyone was able to determine, without even coming near them?

Yet L set himself to the task, had narrowed the number of suspects to a mere handful, and then only one real suspect. Light Yagami, recently accepted into To-Oh University in Japan. L was certain Yagami was Kira, and was working towards gathering the proof of it, and to discovering _how_ he managed his killings. He'd gone so far as to go into the field himself, to reveal his face to the killer who only needed a face and a name. He planned to go even further, to reveal to Yagami that he was at least part of the investigative team, possibly that he was even L. It would shake him up, put pressure on him, and might make him slip up. If Yagami was Kira, then having L suddenly appear on his lap would certainly get things moving.

Four days after showing his face to the most likely Kira suspect, Beyond Birthday died of a sudden heart attack.

L wondered if it was an omen of some sort, that so soon after making himself more vulnerable than ever to Kira, that someone so intimately connected with him died of a heart attack. Had Beyond been killed by Kira, or was it merely a coincidence, a freak chance that he died of the same cause that so many other criminals had? And if it was a message, then how had Yagami known that the oddly sitting boy a few rows behind him had been L? If it was a coincidence, then it begged the question:

How had Kira known Beyond Birthday's real name?

That in a way would make it a message even if it hadn't been intended to be one. That Kira had been able to find something L had not. Worse, it was a piece of information that was critical in their personal duel.

_Was it Kira who killed you, B?_ L wondered, still staring at the stone. _Was it the faceless who killed the nameless, and will he be the death of me as well? Will we both die the same way, the way you predicted? Both alone, and both victims of this self-styled god?_

If that was another thing that B had known, it was too late to ask him now. Even if it hadn't been too late, there was no guarantee he would have given a straight answer.

L sighed, sending out a tiny cloud into the frosty air and shivered, as though the sight reminded him of the chill slowly seeping into his bones. It was time to leave. Anything left unsaid or unresolved would have to stay that way. Now was far too late to try and repair anything.

Using fingertips gone slightly numb with cold, L took out the item he'd brought with him as a parting gift, crumpling the paper bag and shoving it into a deep pocket. He carefully turned over the object, feeling the familiar and at the same time foreign feel of smooth, molded plastics. It was something B had left behind when he had run, and L had felt the odd compulsion to keep. He wondered now if it was appropriate to leave them here, where the elements would surely damage them. They wouldn't be worn again, but would it be disrespectful to leave them where they could be harmed?

L gave up trying to puzzle out proper graveside etiquette. None of it made much logical sense, in any case.

Wiping away the small drift of snow that had gathered since the night before, L carefully placed a folded pair of sunglasses atop the stone. They were the same pair B used to wear before he had gotten his contact lenses.

Having finally given his gift, L was surprised he didn't feel as ridiculous as he thought he would.

Muscles complaining, L turned away from the graves of his top three heirs-in-training and began the long walk back to the waiting car. There was one thing left to do here, and then he had to return to Japan. There was a student at the Wammy House who reminded him greatly of Beyond, who had the potential to either soar as Beyond had promised to, or to fall as he had. L meant to tell him Beyond's tale - with some judicious editing - as a warning. It wasn't much, but it was something to help prevent a repeat of Beyond. And then it would be back to the Kira case.

As he walked, L let his mind roll out the facts, figures and minutiae of the case, felt his resolve flare to life once again. He would bring down Kira, he would prove Yagami was Kira without doubt, and the worst mass murderer the world had even known would fall. It was an interesting and complex game, but L _would_ win.

If he'd known it, his determination to win was eerily similar to one who had warned him he would become more than the original of a reflection, that he would become a reflection himself. The smirk that crept onto his face and curved his pouting lips was a nearly perfect replica of one that had graced a face sporting garnet eyes that saw only death. He thought of none of this, he was now entirely focused on his newest foe, his newest game. But it, too, was remarkably similar to one that involved a certain devil-eyed boy.

Find Kira, discover and prove his identity before _he_ discovered _L's_. Because Kira only needed a face and a name to kill, and now he had L's face.

The smirk widened. Snow and gravel crunched underfoot in the garden of death.

_What's my name, Kira?_

_...  
_

"_Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not __**become**__ a monster."  
~ Nietzsche ~_

_...  
_

_**A/N2:**__ And now, my faithful readers, prepare yourselves, as this is my last chance to be long-winded, and I'm using it. ;D_

_**Final Music (what wouldn't fit to specific chapters, but I still used):**_ In the Shadows _by The Rasmus; _Just Like You _by Three Days Grace; _I Stand Alone _by Godsmack; _Getting Away With Murder _by Papa Roach; _The Howling _by Within Temptation; _Numb _by Linkin Park; _Sugar Cube _by Porcelain and the Tramps._

_**Special Thanks:**__ First and foremost, I thank my unbelievably patient betas, Voice of the Shadow Realm and SkyTurtle2. These two have had to put up with my rambling, my worries, and my nitpicking over the smallest details in the story. They stuck with me and were even awesome enough to ask for more. (They never learn. :D) _

_And of course the readers, reviewers, and lurkers. You guys are all awesome, and I appreciate every one of you. This thing has taken a little over a year from start to finish, and that's a lot of dedication, even for those who started late. It's humbling to me, everyone. Thank you so much._

_**Deleted Scenes:**__ While going through the notes I'd gathered (over two years) to find the pieces to the final chapters, I found a couple of sketched scenes that never made it. _

_**-The Nightmare:**__ Originally there was going to be a scene where Beyond had a nightmare that woke him in the middle of the night, Any overhears him and comforts him. This was meant to solidify B's troubled past and the friend/near brother relationship between B and A, and would have taken place between B's beating in the hallway and the cadaver lab. However, when it came to actually fleshing this scene out it felt forced and unnatural, and solidifying the positive side of B and A's relationship at that point would have made the break that was to come either more intense or less believable. So the scene was dumped and we got an Any nightmare instead. ^^_

_**-Romance:**__ I claim temporary insanity for this scene that never was. I had thought to write out an 'insert-able one shot' which could be added to the main story for those who wanted it or totally ignored for those who didn't. It was going to be a… well, a B/L scene. The idea for this came up while I was writing 'It's Dangerous' and 'My Reason', which is my only real excuse why I thought that it would work at all. However, even as a one shot that could be ignored, it changed the focus of the story and altered the dynamics way too much. So it was pushed to the side and hidden. Until now. But it still didn't happen. :P_

_**-B the Villager:**__ Not really a scene, but in the very first sketch of this fic, I had Beyond as coming from a small village (country had yet to be decided) where he and his parents had been feared and all but exiled for Beyond's eye color, which the other villagers believe to be a demon mark. …Yes, this was a terrible idea. I'm glad it was as short lived as it was._

_**Possible Names:**__ It took some time to settle on the names Any and Beyond eventually wound up with. Here are some of the other possibilities they might have ended up with._

_**-A:**__ A possible taken name or Wammy-given name would have been Another. For true names he was very nearly Andre, although Arlen, Arnam and Asher were all possibilities as well. I settled on Any first, and then came across Anwyl soon after. They both fit him and fit together so well there was no way to have anything else after that. ^^_

_**-B:**__ Of course, Beyond was always going to be Beyond, no matter what, and the same for his Wammy name Backup. However, he still needed a true name and a false-true name. I'd like to say it took a long time and dozens of possibilities… but both Bartram and Benoni came quickly, and there were no other serious considerations. _

_**Future Beyond Birthday Fics:**__ Just a small idea of what I have planned for more BB stories. No guarantees, but what I have in mind. ;3_

_**-Morality:**__ This one is meant to be a short one shot exploring the particular moral ambiguities __Death Note__ and the shinigami eyes calls up. We're with Beyond just before he takes the final step to put his LA plan into action and listening in to his internal struggle at this particular point._

_**-Heirloom:**__ Another one shot, this one is going to take place before 'What's My Name?' and set up a few of the particulars seen there. Rather than focusing solely on BB, though, it's going to be mostly about his family and family history and how it later affects him._

_**-Brothers Contaminated:**__ This is the big one. Planned to be a multiple chapter story (possibly even with a sequel, we'll have to see) with a slightly different take on B's character than seen here. He'll be a little closer to the common model seen, like a half way between that and the Beyond here. In __BC__, rather than trying to fit into the cannon as seamlessly as possible, we'll be taking a 'what if' tack. The 'what if' being, What if Beyond never ran from Wammy's, and attempted to take L down from the inside? Without giving too much away, the focus will be on Beyond __**and**__ Near (no pairing) and Mello and Matt will make an appearance as well. I'm also planning on making this story multimedia by taking cosplay photos to depict certain scenes. (My sister plays Near… it's creepy how good she is at it. O.o)_

_**Future Disclaimer:**__ There has been concern expressed by my beta Voice of the Shadow Realm that a fic she is writing about Beyond by the title 'Sacrificial Lambs' will appear to be a copy of 'What's My Name?'. I'm saying it here and now that I've read enough of it and heard her ideas (I'm her beta as well as visa versa) and am satisfied that she is not copying at all. In fact, a lot of what might appear to be duplication __**she**__ came up with before seeing __**my**__ fic. So really, I was more worried she would think I was copying her. -.-; But no, neither of us are ripping off the other, so for anyone who ends up reading her fic (I recommend it when it appears) please don't accuse her of plagiarism or feel the need to run to me blowing a whistle. I'm aware of it and it's all good. :)_

_And here we are. At the end. One year later and we finally reach the conclusion. 81,203 words, 13 chapters, 12 months. How am I feeling about it? Somewhat relieved, because something that had been taking up so much brain space is done. Proud because I actually made it through the entire story without giving up, and because I think it turned out rather well. And more than a little sad. I have personally invested a lot into this story, emotionally and physically, writing it has not only given me unexpected insights into the world of Death Note and writing, but myself as well. And now, for this story at least, it's over._

_When I first came up with the idea of this story, it was a one shot, meant to be one of several following the young days of all the Wammy Boys. It quickly spiraled and expanded from a cute tale between B and L into an in-depth look into Beyond Birthday's character. Being first introduced to the character through fanart and short fics, I was drawn to him right away for his twistedness and air of a man gone completely mad, but in the book he came across to me as a man who had that potential for twisted insanity, but just bubbling underneath. On the surface he was quirky, but quirky like L. In control, but barely, and carrying a lot of anger._

_I wanted to know why. How had someone gone from Wammy's second best to the angry, scheming character in Another Note? Since there was no official reason, I had to come up with one myself. The problem was that there was so little to go on. Most of the Beyond Birthday 'culture' centers around his being a jam-obsessed, blood-soaked deranged killer… which if you read the book, he's not. Stripping away the various layers given him by the fandom, and just working with facts in the canon, there was another problem: none of the story is told from Beyond's point of view._

_The tale is being told by Mello, who got it from L, who - to be fair - wasn't even there for most of it. A lot of what L knew he must have gotten from Naomi Misora's accounts, assuming that he didn't have to get that from her on-file report with the FBI and LAPD. Three, possibly four or more retellings of the same facts. Even trying to remain as true and close to the facts as possible, something somewhere will get changed. And I personally don't believe that L told the whole truth to Mello. Why? Several reasons. _

_So, tracing backward along the few trustworthy threads of fact, all but completely disregarding whatever didn't fit the criteria, I came to a young B. Then came the task of moving forward again._

_Humanizing Beyond Birthday was an interesting experience, and humbling in a lot of ways. Rather than making him 'just' a disturbed boy already feeling a lot of anger and fighting the world, I made him someone who was naturally weak so his character had to develop upwards before it twisted into what is seen in DN:AN. Humanizing him was hard, because it brought him closer, made him more real and sympathetic, but then I had to slowly crush him. I became so involved in his character, in his experiences and traumas and fears, that to deliberately set him up to fall, to twist the knife into him with my own hands and see a sweet, scared boy turn into Beyond Birthday, 'the twisted killer'… it hurt. And it hurt a lot._

_In a way I think that that's good. It means that - to me at least - he has become someone who is real and who feels and breathes. He's not just print on a page to me anymore, or paint on a canvas. He's got layers, he's got anger, he's got fears and sentiments. There are things that he believes about himself that are true, and some things that aren't, things that he tells himself about his own character that aren't true, but that he won't let himself see because to do that would shatter the self-image he has of himself. …It's quite possibly the most depth I've given any character I've ever worked on, either in fanfiction or in originals. And that's true for the entire story, actually. This fic here contains the most work and effort I have ever put into any other piece, and I have been telling stories since I was about four, and writing them down since I was six. _

_All in all, an amazing journey, and I appreciate you all taking it with me. I truly wish you all the best, and thank you all from the bottom of my heart. _

_(…now I shall go and cry a little bit…)_


End file.
